The Penance List Read online

  THE PENANCE LIST

  by

  S C Cunningham

  He loved being him… he got away with murder.

  She loved being her… until she met him.

  Day Three, Apartment, Chelsea, London.

  Taking a moment to get his breath back, he stood over the mattress, took a leisurely sip of wine and stared down at her beautiful glistening body, pinned out, star-shaped, waiting for his attention. The delicious vulnerability made him hard.

  Click, click.

  With a Cheshire cat smile she closed her eyes, rocked her head back, stretched limbs against bindings, arched her back and lifted hips towards him in invitation. He grinned, his angel wanted more.

  The camera’s soft shutter noise mimicked her quick intake of breath, as he obliged.

  Click, click.

  Long legs pinned wide, he trailed expert fingers across the delicate skin of her inner thigh, his strong hand cupped her pubic bone, putting just the right amount of exquisite pressure on her swollen clit. Without warning, he hardened his grip and shunted her body up the mattress, she yelped with pleasure.

  Leaning low over her chest, he breathed in the heady smell of their sex and blew teasing warm air across bruised, aching, hardening nipples. Her body arced and her mouth fell open in muted cry. He was good, very good.

  How many times had he made her come these past three days…twenty, thirty? He’d lost count. He flicked on the spotlights, the white plastic covered mattress lit up like a boxing ring…now his turn.

  Hooking a finger into her mouth, he tugged on her lower jaw and yanked her face towards him. She snapped her teeth closed, not letting him go, hungrily sucking and circling his finger with her wet tongue.

  Click, click.

  She could tell from his breathing that he was getting hard again. Opening her eyes she looked up into his handsome, sexy face. His robe had fallen open, his beautiful hard cock swayed overhead, she released the finger and grinned, unable to resist. Lifting her head, she took him in her mouth.

  Click, click.

  He let his head rock back with a sigh, why hadn’t she wanted him before, when he needed her? It was sad, he would miss her, but after twenty years of waiting it was time to finish their dance.

  Something glistened on the bedside table, catching her eye. Twisting her head sideways, she strained toward it, pulling the shimmering metal into focus… what is it? Her heart stopped, his cock slipped from her gaping mouth.

  Click, click.

  A neat row of surgical instruments lay on a silver tray, his tools of torture set out in an orderly fashion, soldiers ready for duty, their polished blades shimmering in the light.

  Her eyes flicked to his, questioning.

  Click, click.

  He stared down at her, studying her reaction as if a rat in a science lab. With cold, calm, knowing, he gave a gentle nod of his head and smiled. She’d guessed right.

  Her mind raced, the realization of what he had in mind pumped sobering adrenaline through her body…. fuck, how could I have been so stupid?… and I let him truss me up like a Christmas turkey… shit, shit, shit!

  “Jesus, David, what are you doing?” her rasping whisper barely audible.

  With all that had been going on, she should have known it was a trap. She’d seen his work; she knew what he did to his victims. He didn’t love her, he hated her. It was all a lie.

  She pulled on the ropes.

  Click, click.

  ‘Let me out of here, NOW!’ she screamed.

  He calmly picked up a bottle of red wine, stretched his arm out high over her head and poured. The heavy torrent of liquid crashed down onto her face, filling her open mouth, silencing it to a gurgling splutter. She gasped with shock, drawing a mouthful of the vinegary fluid to the back of her throat, blocking, engorging, she couldn’t swallow.

  She tried to cough up, but the liquid kept on coming, more and more. The overflow quickly filled her nostrils and ran down her face, collecting in a pool beneath her head. Acidic splashes burnt eyes and panic clambered her body. Her heart thumped high in her chest, her lungs tightened, she couldn’t fill them… no air, he’s drowning me, the sick bastard!

  “Swallow, darling, swallow, it’s a delicious little Chateauneuf-du-Pape; you mustn’t waste it,” he laughed.

  “This is just for starters, don’t worry, you’ll be conscious, able to enjoy the fun, just like I did when he took me. But of course you knew that… didn’t you my angel, you conspired with him.”

  A painful image of himself as a seven year old boy flashed his eyes. Bent over the Headmaster’s desk, knuckles white with fear, holding on for dear life, legs dangling, shorts gathered at ankles. His tear-swollen face scrunched with dread, biting his lip, trying not to cry out and make it worse.

  He bore through the pain as the old man tore into him, praying for the strange grunting noises to come quickly, the sign that he would soon stop.

  Her scream broke his thoughts. The wine bottle was empty.

  “Bastard,” she spluttered, pulling arms and legs, ropes see-sawing cuts into her skin.

  He dropped the bottle on the bedside table and picked up his beloved camera, he liked to document before and after shots of his victims. The courage of this quarry amused him; she fought harder than the others. It was a shame, he would miss her. She was his angel… fallen, but his.

  Click, click.

  She looked good when angry, but her screaming would attract attention. He smashed her hard and fast, his punch angled up and under the rib cage. It had the desired effect; she passed out, silence.

  Chapter One

  Eight weeks earlier, Cellini’s Restaurant, Chelsea, London

  “Granted, it’s not everyone’s cup of tea, if you swallow, you are in the minority, it needs sugar or brandy or something,” Tara blew her blonde fringe out of her eyes, concentrating on her defence.

  “Depends on the guy’s diet of course, pineapple is meant to be good, no fast food, no ciggies, no drugs and it could almost be palatable,” her two girlfriends looked at her blankly.

  “It’s full of protein, low on calories,” she enthused, but no, they were still not convinced.

  Click, click… hidden in a cafe across the street, he pulled on the focus, fitting all three into shot.

  As per normal for most Fridays, the girlfriends giggled through lunch discussing men, or the lack thereof. Tara, Helen, and Josie were single, beautiful, intelligent, best of friends. They’d reached the age of thirty having avoided the three things that sap a girl’s energy; marriage, divorce and kids.

  It wasn’t that they didn’t want long term relationships; they were sexually active and adored men, they’d just never quite understood the workings of the male mind.

  If you give them what they want the chase is over and they move on, if you don’t give them what they want, you are a frigid bitch and they move on. If you give them the babies their egos crave for, they are out the door, financing as little as possible, and seeing their offspring at weekends, between the golf, football and their latest sexual conquest. They want commitment yet freedom, for you to be faithful, yet them to be free, for you to be a full-time mother, yet them a part-time father. You couldn’t win.

  Sourcing a man that knows what he wants, is a balanced, reliable, trustworthy soul mate, a good father, exciting and sexy as hell, was a tough call. Maybe the girls asked for too many boxes to be ticked, their quality control buttons set too high.

  Maybe they shouldn’t even consider long term stuff until the guy was at least over thirty five, forty, settled in who he was and what he wanted. The trouble was a girl’s time clock ticked away. The choices were test tubes or older men. The most important choice a person makes is the parent of their child; no one
wants to give the poor innocent thing a dodgy one that they have to live with for the rest of their lives.

  It was tricky, can’t live with men, and can’t live without them. Hell, did they need to have babies anyway? Weren’t they overrated and oversupplied?

  Tara Warr had a particularly high setting on her quality control button, although highly sexed, she was extremely choosy, the consequences of which led to long periods of man-drought. She was currently going through a serious dry patch, climbing the walls; she hadn’t been with a man for a year. She craved the relaxed laissez-faire attitude of Helen.

  Helen Howard had a lower par setting, ‘love the one your with’, she made do with whatever was available on the day, or rather, whoever actually showed an interest in her, which, because she was beautiful, was quite a lot of men.

  Josie James had little interest, what was all the fuss about? She would laugh along with the girls stories of man-woe, giving advice and sympathy where needed. She seldom dated, was wary of men and happy to be alone; she was more interested in her career and quite satisfied with the trusted middle finger of her right hand.

  However cynical they appeared, they each had the romantic seed of hope, that one day Mr Right would come bursting in on his white charger or gas-guzzling SUV and whisk them away to a life of happily ever after. Meanwhile they waited, grazing on titbits that were, more often than not, bad for them.

  Tara and Helen had met as juniors at a convent boarding school for young ladies, upsetting a multitude of nuns in their wake. Josie had been adopted by the feisty twosome years later at college. Her cheeky up-front London cockney savvy and their self-effacing Sloaney wit made an entertaining mix. They had stuck together through thick and thin, enduring life’s roller coaster; a good team.

  Their bond was about to be tested. Evil was entering centre stage of their cosy, comfortable lives. It had been sitting on the periphery for years, plotting, planning, patiently waiting. It was watching them now; they only had to look up through the restaurant window to see it, hiding behind the large black lens that focused directly on them.

  Click, click… the shot pulled in tight, slender fingers wrapped the stem of her glass.

  “I love it, but I totally understand those that don’t, especially when you think about where it’s actually coming from… so to speak,” giggled Tara. “Excuse the pun!”

  “Yes, urrgh!” Helen groaned, jumping on the gruesome fact with gusto.

  Although she loved sex, she was not an advocate of placing anything remotely live or squidgy in her mouth. Her retch-reflex was too sensitive, oysters, snails and egg white had the same effect. She hated blow jobs.

  “Think about it T, they urinate out of the same hole, it’s absolutely disgusting!” she raised her hand to the front of her face, blocking out the image.

  “Yuk! Second thoughts don’t think about it, don’t even go there,” too late, she’d gone there, her face scrunched up with disgust.

  “But, so do we,” corrected Tara, levelling up the case for the opposition.

  Helen grimaced; covering her face with both hands to push away two sets of visuals. Looking down at her wine glass, the yellowy chardonnay didn’t look quite so appealing.

  “Urrgh… STOP… I’m eatin, do ya mind?” moaned Josie, her cockney accent shouting over the two girls. She punched them both smartly on the shoulder, secretly loving it when they got into full debate on the endless subject of men and their ever-fascinating appendages.

  The girl’s discussion mainly flowed in this vein; their witty banter moved at a gallop, sprinting through sentences that didn’t need completing, interspersed with giggles, tears and hugs. They ‘got’ each other with intuitive precision.

  When a man joined the table, the conversation would politely shift a gear to less risqué subjects. Men were simple souls; they may not be able to cope with the intense level of, utterly pointless, discussion given to their private parts.

  Tara did sometimes wonder how they could talk such utter rubbish for hours on end; she put it down to a necessary form of free DIY therapy from those who actually loved, cared and understood you. Knew how to make you laugh and what made you tick. She believed in avoiding shrinks whenever possible, buy a friend lunch; it was cheaper and didn’t keep the drug trade in business, too many unnecessary pills out there.

  “I hate BJ’s… I hate the taste, the feel, the pressure. I am SO useless at them, they make me gag, which is SO not such a good look,” complained Helen, pulling a very unattractive gagging face.

  The girls giggled; Josie put her fork down, giving up trying to eat.

  “No, seriously,” continued Helen. “I try really hard, but I can’t swallow to save my life, and my hand jobs are a nightmare. I get into a nice rhythm, everything’s going fine, then it starts, the insecurity creeps in. Am I doing it right? Am I holding too tight, too hard? Am I yanking too fast? He’s not saying anything, not helping, except the odd sharp intake of breath or animal-like groan. Was that a ‘pained’ intake of breath or a ‘pleasurable’ intake of breath? A ‘yeah, good’ groan or an ‘ouch! fuck that hurt’ groan? How the hell do you know? You have to be a mind reader. My hand gets tired, my knees ache, my jaw starts to lock, my teeth get in the way, I remember that he pees out of it and …”

  She takes a slug of wine, soldiering on with her regular moan about her disastrous sex life.

  “… whoosh!…I lose it, hand-to-mouth coordination gets all out of sync and I go into a blind panic, knowing that he knows, that I know, that I’ve lost it. It’s like reverse parking; start analysing it and I mess up, every time…”

  The girls look at her quizzically, trying to keep up with her line of thinking…reverse parking?

  “And, to make it worse, he’s looking impatiently down at me, like, ‘come on, babe, get a move on,’ probably waiting for the footy to start, spotting my roots need doing, and trying not to laugh at the farting noises my mouth is making…urrgh!! It’s all SO unattractive.”

  She sighs, serious faced, topping up wine glasses, the girls trying not to laugh.

  “How do you know if you’re doing it right?” she pleaded.

  “Hey relax gal, you don’t ‘ave to do it, it’s not mandatory. Some guys don’t like blow jobs, having a set of gnashers around their privates fills them with terror, and some guys don’t like to go down on us for the same reasons; we pee out of it, and the little ‘panic button’ is hell to figure out,” Josie tried to calm her, but she wasn’t listening.

  “And why the hell is it called a ‘blow job’? Granted, it’s a bloody job, but there is no bloody blowing involved, unless I’m doing it wrong,” she stopped in her tracks and looked quizzically up at the girls.

  “Do you blow in the hole?” they both shook their heads, trying not to laugh.

  “I don’t want to force a bloody air bubble down his tubes, he’ll go blue… try explaining that to an ambulance crew. No one teaches you these things, its real trial and error stuff.”

  “Well maybe that’s what the older man is for, hun… to teach a girl the sexual basics,” piped up Tara.

  “That’s even worse, they take Viagra and never bloody stop… they have a hard on for days, your bits are sore as hell… and they never bloody come, where’s the fun in that? To top it all they end up having a heart attack,” Helen gulped more wine, shaking her head.

  Josie giggled. “We’re a bit old for older men don’t ya think? Ours would come with a wheelchair and bus pass. It would be more useful to learn a few resuscitation techniques… a good bit of slap’n tickle and a cheeky bit of CPR, very sexy.”

  Click, click… the frame catches their three heads rock back with laughter, a cauldron of witches.

  Chapter Two

  Twenty-two years earlier, Heddington Hall School, Berkshire, England

  His beauty was a curse. Even though he knew it was coming, his throat retched every time he heard his name summoned in assembly.

  “And lastly, would David Howard report to the Headmaster’
s study, directly after choir practice!” bellowed the Assistant Head to the army of three hundred bored, shuffling schoolboys that stood before him.

  He stood on an old wooden pulpit at the side of the stage. The heat of the morning sun poured in through the vast windows, mixing musty smells of stale milk, wood polish, and body odour. Ghostlike particles of dust caught in the sunlight and percolated around his hunched shoulders, captivating the attention of the younger boys in the front row. He mumbled through the Morning Prayer and attempted to lead the choir in the final hymn, ‘The Lord’s my shepherd’, as usual, he was painfully out of tune.

  Thankfully, the morning bell rang announcing the start of class. He dismissed the assembly hall. Two sixth formers heaved open the large wooden exit doors and the boys obediently marched out row by row, relieved that the tedious standing in silence was over. Noisy chatter filled the room.

  As the teachers began to leave the stage, the Headmaster remained seated, his beady eyes followed David’s small frame. A satisfied grin pulled across his face as he contemplated the afternoon’s pleasure. He particularly enjoyed the boy in his choirboy robes.

  David prayed each morning that the Head would tire of him, move on to someone else. That he would become a normal, innocent, carefree boy again. He spent hours in the school chapel tirelessly chanting the holy rosary, kneading the worn string of beads in his small hands. He didn’t understand the meaning of the words he was saying, but knew that they were important, what God wanted to hear, so he prayed and prayed over and over, begging for help.

  He was a good boy; he didn’t steal, swear, lie or hurt anyone. He cleared his plate at mealtimes and completed his homework. He regularly attended early morning mass, sung his heart out in the choir, and lit countless candles asking for help, but to no avail. He began to doubt there being a God. If there was one, he’d been abandoned. Why? He obeyed all the rules, kept quiet, seen and not heard. Why was he not good enough to be loved by God? Surely God loved everyone?