Saturday, 31 December 2011


‘Time to go, Pussycat.’ Sammy hauls her into a sitting position and she leans against him, limp and moaning. He slips the dress over her head, struggling to get her arms through the sleeves, tugging the neckline into place, fastening the tiny pearl buttons. Her nipples are erect; he can see them through the loose silk.

Picking up her boots he pushes her bare feet into them and zips them up. He pulls her upright and drapes her black woollen cape around her shoulders.

‘Don’t worry, Pussycat. Soon get you warm.’ He walks her to the door, her feet dragging along the boards, and gives a last glance around the room. Her shoulder-bag is already in the boot of the Lada with her underwear stuffed into it. The thought of her without her bra, without tights, excites him. But there is no time now. Later, when they are safe. When they have the money.

Easing the front door closed, he listens for sounds on the stairs. When he is sure there is no one around, he half drags, half carries her to the car.


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