Dirty Bad Strangers (5 page)

“I want to, Jason... I want to be your dirty girl...”

“Tell me how to find you.”

I held out until she spoke, working my cock through the pregnant fucking pause. “...you know I shouldn’t...”

“Give me something, Lucy. I want to make this fucking real.”

“Tell me dirty things, Jason... make me come...”

“I’ll
do
dirty things, once you let me. I can’t wait to put my hands on you, to feel how nervous you are... and you
will
be nervous, Lucy... you’ll be too aware of all the dirty things you promised... all the dirty things I know that turn you on...” I listened to her soft moans, eyes closed to savour the sweet sound of her. “Imagine how dirty you’ll feel... knowing I’m there for your filthy sex... your filthy wet pussy... I’m going to feel every part of you, Lucy, bury my hungry cock in your tight little asshole, and you’ll never even see me... you’ll never see the other men I give you too, either...”

“I want you to use me, Jason... I want you to take me so fucking hard...”

“You’ll get it rough, Lucy... I’ll pound you so hard you’ll feel me for days...”

“
Yes
...”

“I’m gonna suck on your sweet little clit until it’s swollen sore...”

“
Use me
...”

“You ready to be stretched, dirty girl? Ready to know how dirty I can make you feel?”

“Fuck, yes... oh fucking God, yes! Fuck me up, Jason, stretch me so fucking wide for you... I’m ready... I’m so fucking ready...”

I was ready, too. Ready enough to curse under my breath and shoot my load all over my fucking stomach. It pooled in my belly button, spilling down to the dark nest of pubic hair. The girl was driving me fucking crazy. A grunt and a groan and I was done, my temples pounding as reality piled in. 3.30a.m. Training in five fucking hours. Shit.

“Jason...?”

“Yeah, I’m still here. Wow. Shit.”

“That was fucking epic,” she giggled.

“I’m fucking epically fucked for work tomorrow. Again.”

“I think I’m worth it.” I could feel her smile through the phone.

“Tell me that when the alarm goes off.”

“Maybe one day...”

I smiled. “Your anti-domesticity drive doesn’t include sleepovers, I’m sure.”

Neither does my marital or career status.

“Who said anything about sleeping?”

“Fair point. I can go all night if you can.”

“I’ll hold you to that...” she said.

“I hope so.” My tired eyes bailed on me, screwing shut at the horror of another four hour sleep cycle. “But not tonight, I’m out of here.”

“Make sure you don’t crash at the wheel. Don’t want to hear about any filthy truckers shooting their loads off the motorway.”

“I’m not a trucker,” I said.

“Whatever you are...” she purred. “Sleep well.”

“You too, my sweet dirty girl.”

I made for the cancel call button, but her voice stopped me in my tracks.

“Eight four seven.”

It didn’t need repeating.

***

I’d been itching to search online since the second my fist greeted the alarm clock that morning, but I’d been late. Clumsy with my pissing breakfast, and too bloody groggy to get my shit together in time. How many burlesque nights could there be in London on a Thursday evening? Supposing my dirty girl was really
in
London. She could be shacked up in the arse end of nowhere for all I bloody knew. No. She was in London.

I rubbed my eyes, squinting against the drizzle and jogging on the spot to stay awake. Five a side at the training ground, coach had set me up against the youngsters, a couple of newbies with easily enough arrogance to match their fancy footwork. Theo Fernandez, a whippet of a striker, fresh from Barcelona for a season in the Premier League. Barely eighteen and wet behind the fucking ears. He was coming at me, prancing around in his fluorescent pink boots, more concerned with looking the part than he was about his line of approach. Or so I thought. I was too sluggish to read him, too sluggish to catch him as he darted to my left, nipping around my clumsy tackle and scoring a perfect goal over Winstanley’s head. He whooped in victory, fist pumping the air while my teammates cursed.

Jesus, Redfern, get with the fucking show, will you? Call that defence, do you? Wakey fucking wakey.

April’s snotty little pout flashed through my mind, her eyes rolling at my uselessness.

What the fuck, Jason? You’re such a fucking loser lately.

Who’s going to pay you for that shit, Jase?

I didn’t sign up to be the wife of a failure, Jason Redfern. If only your Dad could see you now. So much for making him proud, Jason. Well fucking done, asshole.

April had only brought my dad up in an argument once, three summers previous, when I was drinking too much and out of condition. I’d been captaining a cup semi-final as the whole pissing world watched, and I’d been too slow. The cameras hadn’t been kind, showcasing during replay after replay just how outclassed I’d been. The opposition had caught us all out, but it was me who came off the worst. It was me who let the striker slip past, and me who’d lost us our position in the final. The media loves an enemy. They dragged out every bit of shit they could drum up.

April shouldn’t have said it, but she was right. Dad would have been gutted.

My hands clenched into fists, jaw twitchy.
Come for me now, Fernandez, you little shit. Let’s see who’s fucking past it.

He kicked off, passing back to Bailey and charging forward. Bailey skirted past our two forwards, narrowly avoiding a clash with Eckhart to clear a decent pass back to Fernandez. Fernandez zigzagged like a show pony, parading his footwork as he made a dash to my left.
Not this time, you sonofabitch
. I stormed forwards, cutting him off long before he could reach the box, my side crashing into his as he tried to out manoeuvre me. I leapt forward for the ball, trying to clear some distance, but he was too fucking fast again. He turned his shoulder away, tapping the ball to line up his shot, but I was still pounding the ground, breath loud in my ears as the frustration backed up inside. He was almost clear when I charged him, positioning for a tackle but failing to get my act together in time. I’m not even sure I wanted to. Putting on the brakes too little too late did nothing to prevent the tumble. I toppled him off balance, struggling to keep mine as he went arse over tit. He exaggerated his landing, holding his ankle like a big girl and wailing the fucking pitch down.

Coach blew his whistle, jogging on over while Fernandez milked it for all he was worth.

I’d known coach for ten years, long enough to read the scowl on his face easily enough. He helped the little faker to his feet, patting him on the back as he limped over to the sidelines.

“Redfern! What the fucking hell was that?”

I shrugged. “Just trying to head him off.”

“Like a fucking wrecking ball. You could have broken his bastard leg.”

“I hardly touched him.”

“You knocked him fucking flying. You’re teammates, for Christ’s sake. Pissing act like it.” Trevor Loveridge was a good coach, known for being blunt as a rusty spade. He was wielding it high above his head today, ready to strike as he marched me off pitch. “Look, Jay, whatever the fuck’s up with you has to stop. Your head’s not in it. You’re clumsy, distracted, charging around with a big bastard chip on your shoulder. Got anything you want to be telling me?”

“Like what?”

“You tell me.”

I flicked the hair back from my face, meeting his eyes with defiance. “Nothing’s up, just trying to win.”

“Bullshit, Jase, that’s fucking bullshit.” He leaned back against the railings, weighing me up. “Big season, big game on Saturday, too. Need you on form out there.”

“I’ll be on form.”

“Not if that just now’s anything to go by.”

I shrugged. “A slip, just a bloody slip.”

“You look knackered.”

“I’m alright.”

“You know what your problem is...?”

I had a feeling he was about to tell me.

“...you’ve lost your edge, not because of what’s going on down there.” He pointed to my feet. “Because of what’s going on up here.” I flinched as he tapped the side of my head. “Feet of fire, like a fucking blaze when you’re on form, but when you’re not with the plot you’re a fucking nightmare, a clumsy fucking bull in a bastard china shop. It’ll end bad, Jase, one of these days. Sure Fernandez was ramping up the drama, but you keep going like that and someone’s gonna get hurt for real.”

“I’ll get it together.”

“Best had. Go home, chill the fuck out and get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

I could feel the eyes staring at me from the pitch, scoping out the spectacle. Sloping off in defeat was the last thing I needed. “I don’t need to go home, Trev.”

He slapped my shoulder. “Yes. You do.” He softened the order with a smile, but it smarted all the same. “Watch some TV, bang Miss Electric, whatever. Just get your head straight and get some sleep, alright?”

I admitted defeat. “Yeah, alright.”

“Good lad.”

I was hardly a fucking lad, but I smiled anyway. I grabbed my hoodie, yanking it over my head as I sloped back to the changing rooms. Maybe coach was right, maybe I did need some down time. I grabbed my bag, scrabbling for my phone with little on my mind other than burlesque nights in London, but it wasn’t meant to be.

The text icon flashed before I’d even cleared the lock screen. April. I groaned as I opened her message.

Don’t forget date night. Table booked at nine xxx.

Just what I fucking needed.             

***

Gemma

Cara hadn’t been lying when she said the venue was hard to find. I’d almost given up when I spotted the huge double wooden doors with no giveaway signage, and nearly chickened out when I realised I had to knock and wait. Two bouncers, built like brick shithouses, just like Cara had said, stepped outside to greet me, ushering me in when I explained I was there early for the burlesque night.

“You a performer?” a pierced girl asked as I checked my coat in for safe keeping.

“No, I’m here to see Cara?”

“Ah, she’ll be upstairs,” she smiled. “Go on up.”

I couldn’t deny the excitement as I made my way to the higher floor. A sex club, for real, some BDSM hangout where people got dirty every weekend. I’d never been invited to a place like this before. The guys I normally hooked up with were picked up in regular clubs, a quick fuck in an alleyway, occasionally in a hotel room somewhere. Nothing like this.

I took a breath as I pushed open the doors at the top of the stairs. The club was big, a deceptively open space lined with plush seating booths. I made my way to the bar, a spectacular neon set-up glowing in pinks and purples and electric blues. The barmaid was a pixie-like girl with green extensions and a big spiky lip piercing.

“What can I get you?” she asked. “Cocktails are on special until eleven.”

She gestured to a menu and I scanned a whole host of drinks I’d never heard of before. I was struggling to make up my mind when a pair of arms snaked around my waist.

“Try a garnet crow,” Cara said. “They’re really something.”

I turned to face her, taken aback at the transformation. She was at least five inches taller, cinched in a tight red corset, with a tiny black tutu skirt showing off her perfect legs. Her eyes sparkled like diamonds, layered thick with silver glitter.

“Wow! You look amazing!” I managed.

“So do you.” She checked me out, and I felt distinctly underdressed. I’d opted for red, too, but my dress was nowhere near as dramatic. A simple satin number that offered a decent cleavage display. At least I’d slapped on the eyeliner.

“Six crows,” she ordered, handing one to me as they arrived. “You have to try at least once. Live dangerously.”

“I’m living a little more dangerously than I’m used to.” I took a sip, and grimaced at the burn. “That’s pretty potent.”

“This whole place is pretty potent,” she grinned. “Let me introduce you to the ladies.”

She picked up the tray of garnet crows and I followed happily as she made her way through the club. Her table was right where she’d said it would be, and was home to three women who looked as flamboyant as the rest of the place. Cara was quick in her introductions.

“Gemma, meet Cat, Missy and Trixie.”

Cat stood to greet me first, and her name became immediately obvious. She was a pretty thing, with dark hair to the waist, dressed in emerald to match her crazy green cat eyes. I said my hellos and turned to the next in line. Missy oozed class, a chic blonde bob paired with killer red lipstick. She had a warm smile, and a professional handshake, pretty much passing me onto Trixie, who had hair like a rainbow pony and the raspy voice of someone who smoked too many cigarettes.

I pondered which one of them was Cara’s girlfriend, but the question answered itself.

“Hey, baby, this must be the lovely Firecracker.”

I turned to face the voice, to find Cara wrapped in the arms of the gothiest goth I’d ever seen. Her arms were a mass of bright tattoos but the rest of her was encased in black leather. Her hair was a waterfall of red and black curls, and her skin was white as porcelain. Cara smiled, and her smile was full of pride.

“Gem, this is my girlfriend, Raven.”

“Pleased to meet you,” I said.

“Likewise. Cara’s told me so much about you. Glad you could join us.”

I was too. This place was awesome, but the people were more awesome. I hardly knew them but I felt immediately at home, no false smiles, no judgement, no bitchy stares. I took a seat and felt myself relax, the garnet crow definitely helping me along my way.

Raven didn’t stay long. I took the opportunity to edge my chair closer to Cara, eager to find out as much as possible about the place. She pointed out the BDSM equipment at the back of the stage, the shackles and big wooden bondage cross, and then she told me about the playrooms; roped off for burlesque night but available to members at the weekends. The venue sounded just as wild as I’d fantasised, straight out of my dirty imagination. I’m sure my intrigue must have been plain as day, as our conversation soon became the focus of the group. It seemed I was amongst regulars, not just of burlesque night, but of Explicit in general. What a fucking crazy hoot.

“Are you into the scene?” Missy asked.

“No. I only moved here a few months back, from Hatfield.”

“Gem’s a chatline operator,” Cara shared. “A great dancer, too.”

Cue the conversation about my callers, but unlike the general populous the girls here didn’t shriek with surprise at my stories, they were simply interested. I was interested in them, too, itching to ask questions that flowed a lot easier after my second garnet crow.

The third annihilated any nerves that may have been lingering, and I found myself absorbed into the group, so totally that I barely noticed the club filling up. The lights had dimmed in preparation for the show when Cat asked me about my relationship status.

“It’s complicated,” I laughed.

“Isn’t it always?” they chorused.

Three garnet crows made it seem a lot less complicated than it had done previously.

“I like this guy, but I don’t know him. He’s a caller, a complete stranger... but he’s not. I dunno, it’s weird. I just want him. Really, really want him.”

“Him, or his cock?” Cat laughed.

“Most certainly his cock,” I laughed back. “He’s my kind of dirty.”

“And what’s your kind of dirty?”

I took another sip of my drink for Dutch courage. “I like sex with strangers... more than one at once, preferably.”

The revelation barely caused a ripple.

“Me too,” said Trixie. “If I’m feeling particularly adventurous I’ll hole myself up in playroom two, and wait to see who’ll come join me.”

“Sometimes that’s the whole bloody club,” Cara smiled.

“Answer honestly,” I said. “Do you think I’m crazy, lusting after some guy I’ve never met?”

“No,” Cat smiled. “I was crazy about my fiancé before I ever knew who he was. I saw him up on that very stage, a stranger in a mask who turns into a god with a cane in his hand. Sometimes you just know someone’s the right kind of wrong.”

“Jason’s definitely the right kind of wrong. My kind of wrong.”

“Dirty bad wrong,” Cara laughed. “We’re all a little dirty bad wrong here.”

“You don’t think we’re all a little dirty bad crazy?” I giggled.

“Well, Cat is engaged to a guy who wears a mask and likes to hurt her until she cries. Missy met her boyfriend by breaking all the rules in her day job and courting a guy fresh out of prison. Trixie gets her kicks by fucking anyone with a pulse, and my parents freaked when I shacked up with a dominant as fuck tattoo artist, who happens to be a woman, but you know what? We’re the sanest, happiest, cool as fuck people I know, all of us. If this kind of shit makes us dirty, bad
and
fucking crazy, then I’m happy to take the crazy.”

So was I.

Crazy was beginning to feel really fucking good.

***

Jason

April had chosen Clancy’s for our romantic spectacle. She likes Clancy’s, not for the food, but because it fits her publicity agenda. Clancy’s is classy, but not too classy. Fit for a paparazzi turnout, without the likelihood of being upstaged by those more newsworthy than us. Welcome to April’s world, where shit like that actually matters. I couldn’t give a fuck about any of it.

She’d feigned frustration as the cameras flashed, gripping my hand as though our perfect cosy evening had been ruined by the intrusion. I wondered who tipped them off every other week, not April herself, that would never do. One of her dickhead entourage most likely.

I’ve never gobbled my dinner as fast as I did that night. I raced through my main course and grunted best I could through April’s bitch fest about life, the universe and almost everyone in it. Typically she picked that one night as the only night in the history of time that she decided to order dessert. I swear it was just to piss me off, and it worked. I compulsively checked my phone, agitated as the clock made its way towards eleven and she still picked aimlessly at her raspberry torte.

It took Steve an age to reply to my text message, but as April finally abandoned her fork, he came through for me. It put a big old smile on my face, the only one of the evening.

“Who’s that?” April sneered as I fired off a reply. “Your chatline slut?”

“You just can’t resist a dig, can you?”

“Just making conversation.”

“I’m just about done with your conversation, April.”

Finally, I called for the bill.

We waited in the bar for our regular driver to arrive. Clancy himself came out to bid us goodbye, and I hovered throughout all the niceties, gushing about how marvellous an evening we’d had. I couldn’t wait to shove April in the backseat, piling in after her and directing the driver back home. Her face was a picture as I got him to pull up around the next corner. Steve’s battered old jeep was already waiting. He’d moved quick.

“Where the hell are you going?” April seethed. “What if someone sees you?”

“Don’t give a shit. I’m going out with Steve.”

“And what about me?!”

I slipped out into the night, taking one big gulp of freedom.

“Goodnight, April. Don’t wait up.”

She pulled the door closed after me, scowling through the window.

Then she gave me the finger.

There was one burlesque night at a sex club in central London on a chilly Thursday evening. Only one. Soho.

Steve was chuckling to himself as I let myself in the passenger side.

“That bitch doesn’t get any bloody nicer, does she?”

“No fear of that.” I peered into the backseat. “Did you bring the stuff?”

He sighed, dragging forward a carrier bag. “Are you gonna tell me what the hell’s going on?”

I checked out the contents, a scruffy old pair of jeans and a dark t-shirt, a cap too. My jacket was hard to shrug off in the car, but I managed it anyway, throwing it onto the backseat without a damn for wrecking it. My trousers were harder, and Steve pissed himself all the while I wriggled out of them.

“Jesus Christ, mate, this is like the bloody Twilight Zone. Good job Kim left me, fuck knows how I’d explain this shit.”

The jeans were loose but they’d do, the t-shirt too. “I need you to take me to Soho. There’s a club there, Explicit.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You’re going to a sex club dressed like that?”

“Don’t be stupid. Lucy’s in there, I just want to check it out.”

“You mean stalk her?”

“It’s not stalking.”

“Whatever you say, mate.”

He set off without argument, dependable as rock, getting me closer to the club than parking restrictions allowed and cutting the engine. We sat in silence, eyes on the brown wooden doors along the street. That had to be Club Explicit. I checked the clock. Midnight.

“Now what?” Steve asked, settling back into the seat. “We just wait here until what? Some girl comes out that you think might be her?”

“Yeah.”

“And then what? You gonna go up to her and say
Hey, I’m Jason Redfern, your sicko fucking caller. Yeah, I’m fucking famous. On your knees and suck my dick, bitch.
”

“That wasn’t quite what I had planned.”

“What do you have planned?”

I shrugged. “Only got this far in my head.”

“Great plan, Jase, pure genius. You can’t even know she’s in there for sure.”

He was right, it was a stupid plan. I considered seeing reason and calling the whole thing off, but before I made the decision the wooden doors swung open onto the street, spilling out a group of brightly dressed girls in crazy heels. None of them was a redhead, but my heart pounded like a fucking freight train. I wasn’t going anywhere.

We were parked in-between the club and the nearest taxi rank, giving us a clear view of the revellers as they trooped down the street. I found Steve’s shades from the glove compartment, sinking down into the seat and into the shadows to avoid being seen.

“Relax, mate, no one’s gonna recognise you in here, and even if they did, who’s gonna believe Jason Redfern hitches in a battered old Land Rover?”

It was a good point that enabled me to breathe a little more easily.

My stomach lurched every time people piled out of those double doors, but twenty minutes later only two natural redheads had made an exit. One was well into her forties, and the other had tiny little tits in a push-up bra. Neither was my Lucy, of that I was sure.