Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Julian

Some promisesto yourself are hard to keep, even while bearing a huge, foul cross on your back. The snakes had been awakening and twisting in my stomach, and my pulse had been desperate as I’d shoved her clothes into the washer dryer. Clothes that smelled of her sweetness. If she’d have been close enough, I’m certain Rosie would have felt the heat from me. Being in a room next to a barely clothed little angel was almost more than an addict like me could take.

I repeated my confession to myself.

I, Julian Lockley, am a sex addict, who likes the degradation of barely legal girls.

Rosie was sweeter and much more innocent than any of the others. A girl from a broken home, with a mother struggling with her own self-hating battle and a man who couldn’t be trusted with his fists. Sweet Rosie didn’t need a sexual deviant adding to her burdens. I told myself she was vulnerable. I could never take advantage of that.

Even so, I almost crumbled.

She’d been in the bedroom for a few long minutes by the time my senses began to consume me. Her nipples had been tiny bullets under the damp cling of my shirt on her. I’d seen the shape of her pert little tits and the soft slope of her stomach, and I knew there was a perfect little pussy under there, waiting. The look in her searching eyes showed the ubiquitous kind of curiosity I’d been taking advantage of for years. I could almost taste the intrigue there, as though she was actually sensing the dark needs in my psyche. Spirit meets soul – the archetypal myth of romantic legends. But my spirit was seedy and disgusting, Rosie’s soul was pure and innocent, fit for a storybook princess. She really was a Cinderella. Shame I wasn’t a Prince Charming.

My version of the story wouldn’t be fit for schoolyard reading, that was for certain.

Who knew? Maybe if I’d have written erotic fairytales of sweet little virgins back in my 80s heyday, I’d be a bestseller by now. Agents may have leapt all over it, as opposed to my overdramatised historical thrillers.

I imagined Rosie under the covers in my bedroom, contemplating what kind of sicko lived under the surface of a man like me. It was so tempting to show her. So tempting to ease the door open for a glance. The craving called. Teasing. My feet moved slowly, responding. I knew she’d invite me in there if I showed my interest.

I paused outside the bedroom, fighting my demons with my hand on the handle. It would be so easy to press down and push it open. So, so, so fucking easy. My fingers gripped, and my cock ached, and I could feel my filthy pulse in my temples. The thought of her untouched skin was enough to scorch me, and my world was filling with her.

Infatuation is very dangerous territory, and I’d been battling it for weeks now, ever since she’d knocked on my door – a desperate victim. A girl needing a saviour.

But Rosie needed a true hero, not a dirty, filthy villain like me. I was hammering that truth into my brain over and over, praying the weight of morality held at least a shred of power.

That wasthe thought that made me wrench my hand away from the doorhandle and veer away into the bathroom. The girl was not mine to play with. She was not mine to use. She was nothing more than an innocent little flower, curious in her nasty world of hurt. This godawful place didn’t deserve her presence, and neither did I.

I needed to get the lust out of my system.

I was frantic as I worked my cock at the sink, desperately whizzing through memories of other young girls I’d fucked through the years. Grace’s friends, and the first few little flings I’d had with pretty princesses at college. So many memories used to drive me insane, but they were now nothing more than masturbation fodder. They’d all began to merge into one long stream of debauchery, only there was one vision I couldn’t keep out of them tonight…

The poor little creature in my bedroom kept spearing my senses. It was her I was thinking about when my cum spurted from my dick in three long streams. Her pert little tits I was marking as I came. Her tight little pussy I was pounding as I whacked hell out my cock and spurted every last drop. Fuck, it was divine.

Shewas divine.

The release brought me a little closer to my senses. I calmed myself down and talked some logic into myself. I was back. In the bathroom. In this cesspit, refocusing on my reason for being there.

Thank fuck I’d resisted the temptation.

I stripped off and got in the shower, realising all over again just what a piss poor existence I was inhabiting. It was nothing more than self-inflicted punishment, which would be very, very justified, if only there wasn’t a girl in the room next door relying on my goodwill.

My daughter, Grace, used to have at least ten different hair products cluttering up the bathroom cabinet at any one time. Everything from shampoos and conditioners to hair masks, to serums, to hell knows what else. We had a broader selection of teas and coffees in our kitchen than most local coffee houses, and always had a fresh bowl of fruit overflowing on the side. And as for the furniture, my wife had an incredibly high bar for quality. She wouldn’t so much as sully her ass by taking a seat on the chesterfield in my living room.

I only wished I had a small selection of the things here that I used to take for granted. For Rosie, not for me.

I was in the bathroom long enough to be optimistic that she’d be asleep when I got out of there. I wrapped myself in my bathrobe and was about to leave but good sense prevailed for once. Walking around in just a bathrobe in the presence of the angel of temptation would most certainly be a recipe for disaster. I pulled my boxers and suit pants back on, along with my shirt and left the bathrobe hanging on the back of the door, patting myself on the back before I stepped out of there. I pressed my ear to the bedroom door and heard nothing, hoping she was managing to rest at least a little in this place. She’d need her strength for another long day on her feet tomorrow. I knew her schedule. I’d been trying to avoid it for long enough.

My own sleep was unlikely to bless me this evening, so I resorted to TV as I lay on the sofa, interspersed with cigarettes by the window. The washing machine was working its magic in the background, and I kept the sound down low on the TV. I must have managed to doze for a few hours when I opened my eyes to the hint of dawn. I lit my first cigarette of the day out of my window, and this time I made sure it was open to its fullest, leaning out as far as I could go. I didn’t want the smell tainting Rosie’s work clothes.

Her uniform was clean and folded for her on the arm of the sofa when she appeared in the living room at just gone eight. Her eyes opened wide at the sight. Her hair was wavy, ruffled, and her eyes were still sleepy as she found me there. I got another horrific pang of need. She appeared even more beautiful than usual. She was the personification of temptation itself. A goddess that could be soiled by lust.

“What time is your shift?” I asked her, and she folded her arms across her chest, shyly self-conscious in the cold light of day.

“I start at nine thirty to get the kitchens ready. I need to leave at nine.”

I pointed to her clothes. “All ready for you.”

Her smile was so grateful it took me aback.

“Yeah, I saw. Thank you. That’s amazing.”

I turned to the kitchen. “I only have toast for breakfast, I’m afraid. I haven’t been shopping yet.”

She caught me up as I reached the toaster, still smiling, still grateful, still in my shirt.

“Toast is awesome.”

I smirked as I got the bread ready. “Hardly comparable to your delicious pizza slices last night. I have a lot to make up for.”

“I’ll bring you more next time. You’ll have to give me your menu choices. AND I’ll do you a stuffed crust. How about that?”

Next time.

I didn’t respond.

The toaster popped up the crappy white toast and I slathered cheap spreadable butter on for her. You’d think I was a Michelin-starred chef by the way she gave an mmm as she tucked in. I scoffed at that.

“Steady on with the compliments. They aren’t at all warranted.”

“It’s great,” she said. “It’s always nice to be treated.”

“Even if it tastes like garbage?”

She laughed as I flicked the kettle on.

“It doesn’t!”

I laughed back. “If you really believe that that is good toast, then I’m going to have to re-educate you. Your bar is way too low.”

For a moment I felt a strange flicker of something I’d long since forgotten. Fun. The sparkle in her eyes was alive, and her giggle was addictive.

“Another slice?” I asked.

“Yes, please.”

I didn’t feel the need to hide the teabags from her this time. She would already be well aware of how budget they were. I dumped in an unhealthy amount of sugar and a splash of milk and handed her cup over.

“You really are being spoiled this morning, Rosie.”

“Joke all you want,” she said as I buttered a fresh slice of toast. “But this is being spoiled for me. I could count the times I’ve had breakfast made for me on one hand.”

“Even when you were a child? Surely you were graced with morning toast back then?”

She dropped her eyes. “Mum worked late shifts. She was usually in bed. I made myself cereals mostly. So many times I ended up sweeping them up with a dustpan! I was so clumsy I’d drop the box all over the floor.”

“Tiny hands couldn’t handle it?”

She nodded. “Yeah. Luckily they got bigger, and my accidents got smaller. I used to have to stand on a chair to reach the box from the cupboard when I was in primary school, but I got taller. Eventually.”

On seeing the sweet, genuine look on her face, I was assaulted by another weird flicker. The need to provide. I wished I had an orange juice to offer as she finished up her tea, which seemed to be a strange thought to have, but there you go.

“I should get ready,” she said, and I checked the time on the oven clock.

“Yes, you should.”

She brushed off her crumbs in the kitchen bin and turned on the tap to wash up her plate, but I took it from her.

“No, no,” I said. “I’ll clear up. You get dressed.”

No arms folded across her chest this time. I couldn’t help but see the points of her nipples.

She stood there for ever before giving me another thank you.

I turned away, glad that I’d done so first, cursing my swelling dick. And I didn’t know quite how to react when she re-appeared ready to leave for work a few minutes later, with her cap on her head and her tattered pink bag on her shoulder. Neither did she, it seemed. We both stood, staring, neither of us quite sure what to say.

The deviant part of me still wanted to tear her clothes off. The protective part of me wanted to drive her down to work like a parent dropping their child off at school.

“I’d better go,” she said.

“Yes,” I said.

“I guess I’ll see you around. Maybe I’ll drop in that pizza sometime.”

I laughed an empty laugh. “Yes. Stuffed crust please.”

She’d reached the front door when I called her back.

“Rosie, wait.”

She did wait. Eagerly.

I stepped up close and put my hand on the door above her head to convey my seriousness. She was like a little fairy as I looked down at her.

“If that violent prick causes you any more problems, please make sure you call the police, regardless of what your mother tells you. She’s in too deep to see straight, but you aren’t.”

She nodded, looking weirdly disappointed.

“Yeah, I will do. Thanks.”

I didn’t move my hand away from the door.

“I mean it.” I paused, wishing I’d retreat and forget about it. “Please, keep me informed. You know where my door is.”

“Thanks,” she said again.

Shit, I shouldn’t be doing this. I pulled away. I let her go.

I hated how my heart thumped at the sound of her footsteps walking away along the empty corridor outside.

Fuck it.

I lit up another cigarette and watched her bob along up the street on her way to work. She still had a spring in her step. I was still smoking as she turned the corner, then I lit up another as I thought the evening through.

It had been close to disaster, almost more than I could bear.

Yet there was a tiny light at the end of a very dark tunnel, because if Rosie was going to be visiting me again in moments of need, I’d have to make sure I was stocked up for it. She deserved that much, even if I didn’t.

I headed for my wardrobe, taken aback when I reached the bedroom door. The bedsheets were made immaculately. She’d folded down the corner like she really had been in a five-star hotel. My shirt was hanging neatly on a hanger on the wardrobe door, and my flat pillows were laid even and smoothed out.

It was clear she’d most definitely been grateful. There was a folded up note on the bedside table. The back of a corner shop receipt. Her handwriting was a pretty scrawl.

Thank you. I had nowhere to go. x

Neither did I, usually. I was normally in a self-contained pit, with barely any outside contact. I rarely spoke to my work colleagues unless we crossed paths by the photocopier.

Today I did have somewhere to go, though.

I picked a virtually identical suit as yesterday’s. Another pair of black trousers with another striped tie, and I did the unthinkable, even though it was teetering on the edge of unacceptable to my rational brain. I used the shirt Rosie had worn in bed last night, inhaling her sweet scent as I buttoned it up in the mirror. I made sure my tie was straight, and I made sure to give myself a fresh berating as I pocketed my wallet and set out for Worcester city centre.

This shirt would be the closest I ever came to that girl. That’s what I told myself.

Maybe this time, for once in the past decade, I wouldn’t be lying.