Black Lace Quickies 1 Read online

  Monica Belle is the author of the Black Lace novels Nobel Vices, Valentina’s Rules, Wild by Nature, Office Perks, Pagan Heat, Bound in Blue and The Boss. Her short stories have appeared in numerous Wicked Words collections.

  Lovely Cricket Jan Bolton

  IT WAS DAD who started it off. I blame him. He was the one who badgered me into signing up for the Rothermere Eleven. I told him I wasn’t interested in cricket – or bloody football or hockey – but he never listened to me. I’d been dragged – well, driven – protesting to the practice nets twice a week and, even though I never seemed to be putting that much effort into it, I cultivated a medium-pace spin technique that Dad said reminded him of Daniel Vittori’s. I’m long in the leg and I soon perfected the timing of letting the ball free from my grasp, making sure it carried full momentum behind it. By the time the batsman had realised he’d underestimated me, the bails were already on the ground. I’m no slouch at the crease, either. I hit fours every game, much to everyone’s surprise, not least my own and bounded down the wicket in fewer strides than it took most of my opponents. By mid-March I was in the elite squad. Me – Chris Cavendish. I could barely believe it.

  The upper and lower sixth cricket tournament happens every June, when we play the equivalent teams from Sir William Levington. It’s a school tradition – part of sports week. All the old crocks get wheeled up there for the day in their MCC and old school ties, straw trilbies and cravats and blazers. There’s always a reception afterwards in the long room opposite the pavillion and, if it’s a hot day, drinks are served by the lower years on the perimeter lawn. It’s all very English and polite.

  Dad was overjoyed when I made the upper eleven. He kept going on about having my name on that cup, like his had been thirty years back. The photo has been up in his study since I can remember – him and his hairy classmates back in the mid seventies, proud jaws and great prospects, prog rock on vinyl in the evening and Brian Johnston on long wave in the afternoon.

  It’s a bit late now to say it would never have happened if I hadn’t been in the team. But how was I to know that the sight of me in my whites would be the final spark that would ignite the Roman candle of emotions in Melinda Parry – mother of my classmate Jason and the owner of the finest pair of tits in the borough, the South East, the country – to fizz and combust in a torrent of brief but beautiful flames.

  As I sit here now, in my bedroom, waiting for the fallout, I try to tell myself I don’t really give that much of a toss about it, ’cos I’m off to university in September, and they’ll have forgotten about it by Christmas. I hope. But I don’t think I can rely on that little nest-egg Dad promised me a couple of months back. The sight of his face when he caught us was something I’ll never forget. And now I’ve been grounded pending a serious chat when he gets back here in about an hour.

  I still can’t believe it happened. It felt so right but, of course, I realise now that it was very, very wrong. I should have talked about it with someone, but it’s not something you chat about with your parents, is it? How would it go? ‘All right, ma, I’ve got the raging horn for my best mate’s mum. Leave us alone for a bit, will you.’ No, it just wouldn’t be right.

  I guess that’s the thing about suburban life … no one dares speak about sex but it occupies a large amount of the residents’ daily thoughts – the not getting it, that is. It’s the not getting it that landed me in hot water. Whatever happens I’m not going to blame her for seducing me, which she did, kind of, but it was hardly rape of a minor. I mean, it wasn’t illegal – just immoral. I’ve never been one for false modesty and ‘Oh, I shouldn’ts’. I always hated hearing my female relatives say that at birthdays and Christmas whenever Mum had wrapped up some cheapo toiletries to give out to them, supposedly from me. ‘Oh, you shouldn’t have!’ they’d trill. Well I’m not going to say that, ‘cos I did, and I have no regrets. And I’d do it all over again. If I could …

  Jason’s mum stopped me dead in my tracks the first time I met her – nearly three years back. I was besotted, but I kept it well hidden. I don’t think Jase suspected anything. He was usually head down in one of his snowboarding magazines or playing Grand Theft Auto. I’d never been that bothered about gaming before, but once I’d clocked Jason’s mum I cultivated an interest that had me round their place all hours after school. I was happy to smack up some CGI pimps if it meant I could see Melinda. I’d be invited to tea, and to Sunday lunch sometimes.

  Jason’s parents were divorced. His dad was the competitive type, the opposite temperament to Jason and his mum. I guessed that Melinda liked that kind of powerful man who would lavish her with fine things – jewellery and fancy holidays and perfume and knickers. But I was wrong about that. I distinctly remember staring into a fruits of the forest Pavlova and drifting off to thinking what I could give her as a little present and thinking I didn’t have a chance of impressing her. And then I realised I had turned into a romantic fool. Early on in my visits I bought her a bunch of flowers – for having me round to tea so often – and I went purple with embarrassment when she leant in to kiss me thanks. But the touch of her hand on my shoulder sent me into paroxysms of delight and I shivered under the warmth of it.

  I recall being in the Parrys’ garden, at dusk, late last year – just me and Melinda, siting on the padded sun swing, gently rocking back and forth. Jason was having his Sunday bath and I was acutely aware of being alone with Melinda, who had her neat, tanned bare legs curled under her. I couldn’t help my eyes from darting to where her dress had been pushed up. I was ten centimetres from luscious female thigh flesh and I was in pain from wanting to touch her. By this time I was besotted with her, and there was no stopping the tide. We were talking about the future; about my studies and what universities I was applying for, but all I wanted to talk about was how lovely I thought she looked. I must have been sounding less than confident because – and I remember it as if it were yesterday – she brushed her hand through my thick blonde hair and told me everything would be fine.

  At that moment I wanted to fall upon her; to kiss her deeply and rip the light cotton dress from her shoulders and roll her down on to the grass. I wanted to be a beast with her and offer her my virginity and tell her she was beautiful. Her hair was shining in the early evening light and she looked so tempting – I sensed a wealth of erotic treasures could be mine, if only I could make the right connection. She was a woman in the prime of her life and she needed to be worshipped. I didn’t have experience, and that was obviously what she would want from a lover, but I had plenty of enthusiasm. If only I had known then what she was like – that she too had strong desires, especially for younger men – I may well have acted upon my lusts a lot earlier. But I gritted my teeth and smiled thinly and pressed my hands between my knees in discomfort and shame at having my hair tousled by my mate’s mum. There I was, thinking that she saw me as ‘sweet’ or something, and all the time she was planning on taking things a lot further.

  Humans are cursed by shyness. Where does it come from? Why is it the most difficult thing in the world to tell someone you fancy them? I don’t understand why it causes so much fuss. Unless a person is obviously displaying signs of arousal – and, personally, I find it very difficult to tell if a woman is aroused – potential couples can go through their lives never taking that essential chance that can make all the difference to one’s sexual history. And that kills me.

  A year makes a lot of difference when you’re my age and, to be honest, I was gagging for some action. I’d been on a few dates and read enough to know what not to do in bed, but I craved an experience with someone older. My girlfriends in the neighbourhood were great company but, try as I might, I just couldn’t get worked up about them the way I did about Melinda. I’d taken to pulling myself off about twice a day thinking of her. And after a couple of weeks of this she started looking at me differently – taking her time to listen to me, her eyes slowly looking me over when I’d stand in the kitchen waiting for Jason in the mornings, o
r whenever I called round. I convinced myself I must have been sending out powerful signals of sexual energy, drawing her to me with all that concentrated thought.

  Melinda didn’t work, and she always looked stunning, with long, dark, lustrous hair and a great line in low-cut tops made of materials you wanted to stroke. She never looked brash or too old for her outfits; she had a grace about her that was ageless and her smile would melt my insides at twenty paces. The family was minted; they even had an electronic gate and a driveway. It was so different from the way my family lived. We had a nice house and stuff but it was always chaotic and noisy. Two younger sisters squealing on their karaoke machine and Dad endlessly drilling and doing DIY and my mum trying to keep a semblance of order. The Parrys’ place was tranquil – Jason was their only kid – and Melinda spent most of her time refining the interior design. Even the floral displays were colour coordinated and bursting with life. Everything she came into contact with seemed to bloom into ripe sensuality.

  I like to flatter myself with the notion that I orchestrated the seduction with my irresistible looks, but the most likely truth was that she was bored. When I think back to her body language, her carefully chosen expressions and her flirtatious laughter, it all seemed too obvious for anything to happen between us. But she was clever; it was a double bluff. I always know which of my friends are seeing which girl because, after months of giggling and whispering and teasing each other, there’s suddenly silence between them – overcompensating to put their mates off the scent. It’s the first sign someone’s having sex. So I never read Melinda’s hands-on behaviour as anything other than affection. The unthinkable happened out of the blue – and it kind of scuppered my theory. I now know that when your best mate’s mum shows up to watch the cricket match her son is not even playing in, wearing a skirt that’s short enough to be a low-slung belt, and settles herself in with a pair of binoculars, realisation should kick in that something unusual is afoot.

  The Parrys’ house is right near the school sports ground and, by early April, Melinda had started to watch me at practice, which I initially found odd and then occasionally distracting, and then a major turn-on. She told me she was interested in the game, which I found hard to believe, especially when she said I’d take at least five runs and score a half century of wickets. I laughed at her mix-up and tried to teach her the difference, but I could see it wasn’t sinking in. But she was beginning to have an effect on my performance.

  There was no getting Jason down there as a chaperone – he just wasn’t interested in traditional sports, and I could hardly tell him what was beginning to blossom. In fact, there was no one I could talk to. I thought I was imagining things and I wasn’t about to tell her to back off as I was enjoying the attention too much. I mean, what young man in his right mind would have had asked for protection from a sexy housewife he had fallen in love with?

  She’d taken to giving me a lift home after practice, dropping me off and chatting innocently as you like with my mum and dad. I got a couple of sly comments from Scott, the team captain and the most worldly-wise of the lads, and I spotted the others giving her the occasional lustful glance, but they had no reason to be leery. Everything was innocent, in deed if not in thought. Summer was almost underway and she’d taken to wearing skimpier clothes. In the car I couldn’t take my eyes off her legs and she wouldn’t stop grazing my knee every time she changed gear.

  The atmosphere had definitely become sexually charged. She wasn’t just my mate’s mum any more; she was a potential conquest. My first proper woman. She’d started to ask me about my girlfriends; what sort of women did I like; what pop stars and celebrities. I mentioned Angelina Jolie, only ‘cos I couldn’t really think of anyone else, but subconsciously I might have been thinking of Melinda when I said it. Melinda’s about a foot shorter than AJ but the hair and the complexion are the same, and I prefer unusual, strong dark women to cutesy blondes. She smiled at that, and then came out with it: ‘So, how many lovers have you had?’ I fumbled. I faffed and mumbled. I shrugged and stuttered words that weren’t in any vocabulary. Eventually I came out with the outrageous ‘a few’, although she knew I was being economical with the truth.

  ‘I don’t want you to be scared,’ she said. ‘You know I’m genuinely fond of you and care about you doing well …’

  Yes, I was thinking. And … but …

  ‘But the fact is I’ve become attracted to you. In the way that a woman is attracted to a man. I cannot bear not touching you any longer, Chris. You have become more than my son’s friend.’

  I knew the right thing would be to say thanks and get out of the car and leg it. Or text Jason and tell him his mum was losing it. Or give her my dad’s number and say she’d be better off with a real man. But of course I did none of these. Instead I took a quick look in the rear view mirror, thought of all the wanking I’d done over her in the past year and, seeing no one I recognised, pulled her towards me by the shoulders and snogged her. My mate’s mum.

  And my world burst into a supernova of delight as the reality of the situation filtered through to my consciousness. How cool was this! With my mouth still pressed to her lips I let my fingers stray to her breast. I nearly passed out with the joy and relief of finally laying hands on this goddess. I kept saying, ‘Oh my God’ and slapping a hand to my forehead. I was grinning like a loon and trying to remember whether I had packed any rubbers in my cricket bag. I was as nervous and excited as a shivering pup yet my ample rangy body felt as if it was expanding to giant size. I was becoming too big for the car. Not to mention the crotch of my cricket pants.

  ‘Chris, listen to me,’ she continued, ‘I want to do it as much as you do. But we can’t go to either of our houses and I’m not going to clamber into the back of the car with you.’

  I was experiencing joy and desperation in equal measure. She wanted to ‘do it’ – but it wasn’t going to happen this evening. When, then, when?

  ‘No, of course not. I understand,’ I managed to blurt out. ‘It’s just that I want to touch you so badly.’

  My dick was flexing against the constraining cloth and Melinda had seized upon it. She must have known what agonising thrills were coursing through me. I practically had my head between her cleavage and I was not going to last long in that position, especially not with her touch firmly pressed on to my flesh. I had to get out of the car.

  ‘I have to go, Melinda,’ I said. ‘I’m sure you know why. I’m not going to say anything to anyone.’

  She smiled and caressed my cheek. ‘I know you won’t. And I’ve got an idea. Something to improve your cricket,’ she teased. ‘If Rothermere wins the match, meet me behind the scoreboard just after the game, and I’ll be there with a surprise for you.’

  I didn’t know whether to believe her or not – or indeed what to think after this extraordinary turn of events – but I walked briskly home with my cricket jumper in front of my crotch and a spring in my step. I couldn’t wait to lock myself in the bathroom as soon as I got home and I lazily pulled on my cock in the bath thinking about Melinda’s beautiful breasts as I shot a stream of vigorous sperm up on to the surrounding tiles.

  Come the day of the tournament a couple of weeks later the sun was blazing and everyone’s parents and friends were seated in deck chairs around the pitch. The lower years were serving refreshments to local dignitaries and the image was one of suburban serenity. Melinda was there with Jason and the sight of them together as mother and son turned my stomach into knots. Had she been shitting me about the special treat? Surely she wouldn’t risk anything with Jason there. And my mum and dad were sat next to them. I had to put my love-struck thoughts out of my head and concentrate on the game – a limited 40-over innings each.

  Levingtons won the toss and opted to bat first. Scott chose me to open the bowling and I gave the new ball a long slow rub along my thigh, hoping that Melinda was watching through her binoculars. The opposing side’s team captain was first man at the crease and he was a big bastard fo
r his age. I’d heard from Scott that he was South African, so I was already faced with a challenge. It wasn’t like sending a ball down to Bradshaw or Neville from our own side: normal British lads who’d cut their teeth on the indoor nets at the local prep school. Guys like Levington’s captain had the whole of veldt to practice in under a searing sun. Bugger.

  I gave it my all and so did he – sending a couple of fours in the third over up to the boundary as our chaps slid their level best along the grass to stop the ball before it trundled into the refreshments tent, but failing. I’d managed to bowl one maiden over but Blankenfeld shamed me by hitting those two fours. After I’d bowled five overs Scott shifted position and I was moved into the slips. Crouching in the midday heat my thoughts kept jumping to what Melinda was planning, making polite conversation with my mum and dad and scoffing cheese and pickle sandwiches. I spent a few fretful minutes wondering what Jason would think if he knew what wheels had been put in motion. But he wouldn’t know, would he? Because neither Melinda nor I were about to tell anyone what was occurring. If, indeed, anything was.

  There was a sudden roar as the side of Blankenfeld’s bat clipped a nice spin delivery from Neville. It rebounded at an awkward angle and my practice came into its own as I took one great leap for Rothermere College to stretch my right hand out at the perfect place. The leather orb smacked down nicely into my palm and their captain was dismissed for 28. It was a turning point. With the captain gone the rest of their lot fell like nine pins and we dispatched them for 92 all out.

  It was back to the pav for refreshments and a consultation with the team for our innings tactics but my mind was on Melinda, and whether she’d seen my lucky catch. We must have looked the epitome of youthful vigour as we strode across the pitch, slapping each other on the back and showing congrats all round, exaggeratedly replaying the near misses and flukey triumphs. I caught sight of her with my dad, waving to me, and I flexed inside my cricket box, safe at least in the knowledge that if I got a hard-on it would be shielded by that essential cup of plastic that’s protected a man’s tackle and modesty since the game was invented.