Slender fingers trailed along his erection. Slowly, they fluttered over and around the bulbous head, before enclosing the whole throbbing shaft, and with maddening . gentility began sliding backwards and forwards with only a caressing touch. Over and over again, until he was sure his penis had grown extra inches.
Then came the tongue, licking hungrily around the head, probing at the little slit in the end., before slurping back down the whole erection to the hilt, as the fingers lifted it upwards to give access for the tongue to lap along the underside vein.
Eagerly he was waiting for the next stage, the lips, the mouth, and he wasn't kept waiting. Firmly, positively, the lips moved along his penis, with the tongue trailing its ecstatic presence between them. Several lascivious strokes, until, on reaching the very tip, the lips surrounded the head, which was immediately drawn into the succulent strangely cool mouth, which sucked it deep to the back of a throat, while the tongue worked feverishly, around it. Slowly the rate of movement was increased, almost frantic, in its demand. He became aware of long hair tickling on his upper thigh.
Suddenly, the baffling question came into his head. Who was doing this to him, or for him? He had no idea, how or when it had started. He slightly raised his head from the pillow, trying to see in the deep gloom of the room. All he saw was blonde trailing hair, which hid the action of the mouth, and briefly he caught a vague sight of a slender hand, with long finger nails, before it disappeared behind the hair, and he felt his scrotum, being lightly squeezed..
The pressure on his erection became unbelievable, as the mouth adopted a more definite sucking motion. He had to see that mouth absorbing his penis, had to know who this woman was. Trying to raise his body, he reached down, and his fingers pushed the blonde hair to one side.
Instantly, a number of devastating things happened. He saw his erection disappearing into the mouth of an unknown woman, who, in the same instant raised her head, and her mouth gaped in a devilish snarl, with his penis lying stiff on her lower lip, while long-nailed fingers clawed into his scrotum, tearing at it.. That mouth, in a face of pure evil, clamped shut viciously on his erection.. He gave one agonised scream.
David Turton opened his eyes in terror. The room seemed to reverberate with the fading sounds of his scream. He was in his bed, and he blinked up at the ceiling for a moment. Light showed on the new curtains. A dream? More correctly, a nightmare. More intense than any nightmare he had ever had before. So intense, in fact that he was almost frightened to look down at his genitals. But his semi erect penis looked perfectly normal, lying across his naked thigh, and he reached down to ensure his scrotum was intact.
A bloody horrible dream. He lay for a few moments allowing his perspiring body to cool. Not the way he wanted to spend his first weekend in his new house. He guessed it could have been brought on by the story he had been avidly told in the village pub the previous evening..
"You're very brave taking on the Brooksley Cottage. Seven years since the murder there, and it has stood empty since then." A middle aged local had told him, over a cool pint. It was nothing he didn't know already. The estate agent had been bound to admit why the bungalow had stood empty for so long.
"A young lady, I heard," David told his companion.
"So you knew? Aye, just twenty eight, she was. Nobody knew her very well. Kept herself to herself, pretty much. Police never found anybody for it, and never gave much information." The man took a quaff of his ale, his head shaking. "Reckon it had been pretty brutal. Rape, according to the coroner. But with no hard information all kinds of tales have grown up. Especially the way that tramp was found."
"Tramp?"
The stranger's eyes lit up, "Oh, you don't know about that," he said, almost delighted that he had some new information to throw at David. "Aye, Joe Summers, he's a farmer owns the fields back of your place. One morning he noticed that the back door had been forced—"
"Tramp broke in?"
"Aye, looking for somewhere to doss. Joe says he threw up at what he found."
David wasn't sure he wanted to hear more of this, but he still asked, "Bad?"
His storyteller took a quick glance around the crowded bar, lowered his voice, pointed down his front, as he said, "His genitals were gone. Like they'd been torn or bitten off, and there was lots of blood about his mouth. Coroner later confirmed his tongue was gone too." The eyes studied David, looking for response before switching direction completely."There'll be some work for you to do out there, eh?"
David shrugged, "I have my own business in town. Turton's Building and Decorating. Set up by my father. I took over when he passed away just over seven years ago. Have a staff of twelve, all kinds of skills. Some of our men, have been fixing the cottage up for me.New kitchen. New windows and doors. But I'm keen to do the internal decorating myself—that's my speciality. And that starts tomorrow."
Walking home the three quarters of a mile that night with the September moon hanging high in the clear sky, David was able to ponder what he had just heard. Not attractive, but the extra news hadn't upset him too much. He was much too rational to believe in superstition or fate. Although, that seven year gap had, even before that night, aroused unwanted memories in his head.
Seven years ago he had been in the middle of a mad motoring tour of the USA. Sent there by Sam Connor , his deputy, to help him get over the deep grief after his father's death. "Get yourself away," Sam had ordered. "Get your head sorted. You'll be no good here in your present state.
. Now, sitting on the edge of the bed, he sighed, and reckoned that given what he had heard last night, it wasn't surprising that he was having weird dreams in his new house. He looked around him at the faded, peeling, rose patterned wallpaper, which must have been there at least seven years. So the decorating work would start now n this first full day..He already had pale green vertical lined replacement wallpaper, which matched the duvet he'd brought from his flat.
Out of bed, he drew aside the curtains to view a fine bright September day, and the open field that led up to the main road to the village. The bungalow was just remote enough for him to have the peace and quiet that he craved. With the business running well, ably managed by Sam Connor, David intended to indulge himself with some writing. Something he had been keen to follow for a long time. He intended to start with an article, or maybe a book, on that USA motor tour, and maybe the events that led up to it. It might lend a touch of humanity to the work.
By ten o'clock he had step ladders, a scraper and a pressure steamer for softening wallpaper. It gave him a good feeling to get the job underway. By two thirty all the rose paper was down, apart from the three length section behind the bed. He hauled the bed to the centre of the room. Like all the rest, the paper came away in pleasing large strips which he immediately bundled into a black plastic bag. He freed the edge of the last strip, and started to pull it away by hand. Immediately he noted the red printing on the bare wall. .
Sara Burnley October 1971
That discovery made him feel terribly sad. He imagined her pride in decorating her own bedroom, as though she had decided to make her mark on this property. Never knowing that within months, at twenty eight years of age, she would be brutally put to death. Was it in this room? Had she known her assailant? A deeper sadness seeped into David's bones..
Thoroughly depressed, he cleared the removed paper away. Leaving things ready for the following day's activity, he could not stop considering that poignant name on the wall, and the sudden impact it had made on him. He felt compelled to learn more about her. When he visited his works office on Monday, he resolve to go to the library and look up the newspaper pages for 1972.
Late after noon he drove to a favourite restaurant in town serving exquisite pork chops with a special sauce. So, well-fed and more relaxed than he had been in the afternoon, he was home and changed into more casual jeans and T shirt. Sitting down at the desk he had in the small back bedroom, he began making a few notes about the USA journey. It was turned eight o'clock and dark outside. He kept the lighting dim, only just enough to read his own notes..
Some time later he became aware of a sound, a sound he couldn't distinguish. David turned from his note-taking, and listened. It came from the front of the house. Just a little chilled, he stood, and he moved quickly into the hall. From here he was certain it was coming from the main bedroom, and it was the sound of someone sobbing.
Tentatively, he opened the bedroom door, reached for the switch. Until he hit it the sobbing continued, but the moment he turned it on the sound stopped. He stepped into the room. Nothing there. Wallpaper rolls were untouched. Pasting table was where he had set it up. The bed actually looked very inviting. He began to wonder whether the sobbing sound might have been something from outside. Up on the road maybe, or some creature outside. Anyway, it wasn't there now. He began to close the door when his eyes were drawn to the written name high on the wall.
"I've got to know what happened here, Sara," he murmured, and immediately felt stupid. Who the hell are you talking to? The sorrow engendered by his first encounter with the name on the wall, had obviously not left him.
He went back to writing notes, and felt that it was going so well that it might be worth setting something out on his laptop. But that would be next time, because by ten o'clock he found himself feeling drowsy, so he packed up and went to bed. Sometime through the night he had the sensation of a woman's fingers passing along the length of his body. Nothing else. Only that solitary touch.. .
