There it was, no more than an inch from the very centre of me -- from parting my labial lips, no less -- and I had the strongest feeling that no matter how hard either of us tried to stop it, we wouldn't be successful. It was the most alarming, scary, heart-racing moment of my life.
That was three months ago, though, and I think I'd better fill you in on the details leading up to that moment -- no matter that it still retains its status deep in my memories, and always, I feel sure, will.
Not that I can't get that particular moment out of my head, which is why I started out jotting down my recollections with it. But a little context is very much needed I guess, or you'll maybe never understand fully just why that particular moment is so deeply etched into my brain.
Introductions first, then. I'm Jenny, thirty-six, and for those with an interest in such things my age has just overtaken my bra size. I'm fit enough, pretty enough, and curvy enough to still turn heads when I put on my best clothes and more expensive make-up -- although that sort of thing only occurs occasionally these days. I'm a non-typical unmarried mum since I'm single by choice -- although in fact I was married for a little under five weeks back when I had just become seventeen.
It was a short-lived marriage of convenience.
Having a ring on my finger allowed my mother to overlook the fact that I was being so stupid as to get married when still -- technically, at least -- finishing my A-Level courses, and ensured that if I became pregnant quickly then my offspring wouldn't be a 'bastard' -- her term, not mine. I was still her virginal little girl, of course.
It was also convenient for my then boyfriend since it ensured that I would let him move into my parents' annexe with me, and give him unfettered access to my virginal little pussy. It also gave him access to a nice array of wedding presents, a product of the 'old money' that was such a feature of my parents' life and the lives of their many friends.
As I say, it was a short-lived affair. Five weeks and a day, to be precise. My fleeting -- and subsequently fleeing -- husband left me with nothing to show for the thirty-six days of wedded bliss except for an empty present cupboard and a not-so-empty womb. I never saw hair nor hide of the wedding gifts again, but on the other hand young Philip was born eight-and-a-half months later. All in all, he proved to be worth a lot more than a Royal Dalton dinner service and a couple of microwave ovens. The event also, somehow, lent my mother the ability to still see me as the virgin bride who had been wronged.
And believe me, I was never going to admit that my brief husband was not exactly the first male to 'have his way' with me. I wasn't quite as bad as 'slapper' Jane from down the lane, but I'd clocked up a cock or five by the time the nuptials took place, and if I didn't exactly know my way around a big, comfy bed, I had more than a passing acquaintance with the occasional Ford Transit van and a haystack or four.
Thinking now, it strikes me as rather amusing that this whole tale starts when baby Philip was a few weeks past being an eighteen-year old -- that was a full year older than I was when he was conceived... Strange, but true.
Anyway, that introduces the main players -- or at least the human ones. The non-human one, though, is Doris -- who might sound human but was, in fact, nothing more than a storm.
Here's what happened on the night that Doris came to town...
I've referred to 'her' already as 'nothing but a storm' but that's understating things really. She was the worst storm Britain had seen for more than twenty years -- torrential rains, heavy snow in some parts and worst of all by far were the gale force winds. I was by then living in a ramshackle cottage in the middle of dense woodland -- an 'idyllic' setting on paper and a 'great investment opportunity' according to the estate agents. Or in other words, very isolated and in desperate need of repairs and renovations.
Technically I was living there alone, which was just as well since most of the property was uninhabitable save for a kitchen, a sitting room, a bathroom and one-and-a-bit bedrooms. In actuality, though, Philip was camping out in the 'bit' of bedroom before the start of his university course so that he could help with the many repairs I was facing. In theory, at least. Despite the occasional bit of sawing or painting, his hands tended to spend their time down at the local pub full of either pint glasses or barmaids. Or both at the same time.
In truth, I didn't mind. Compared to the teenage me he appeared to be something of an angel and he was always well-behaved around the hovel -- if by 'well behaved' I mean 'asleep'. Seriously, though, he was helpful when conscious and didn't bring a succession of friends back to disturb my peace -- evidently even teenagers have some standards when it comes to party/sex venues.
But back to Doris.
As I said, the cottage was set in the middle of woods -- as in, at the end of a winding lane with nothing but trees for neighbours -- and although it was late February when the bitch... sorry, when the storm arrived, the trees still seemed thick with branches and the ground widely and deeply strewn with last year's leaves. The afternoon of her arrival saw the former snapping off of the trees and the latter swirling up in great clouds as the winds began to rise.
Philip even came back early from the pub as darkness fell -- a sure sign that more inclement weather was due -- and we ate a quick supper of gourmet proportions sitting together at the rickety table in the rickety kitchen. And by 'gourmet' I do, of course, mean frozen and thrown in the oven for twenty minutes.
Food was not a primary concern for either of us, though.
"Mum! Are you sure the trees around here won't come crashing through the roof?"
I made light of it while crossing my fingers under the table, "Oh, Philip! Stop fretting so much. These woods don't have a single fallen tree in them so I'm sure we'll be fine."
"Yeah, but this storm is massive. It could be like that one nan always goes on about back in the olden days."
"Eighty-seven is hardy the olden days! Even I remember that one." It was at least true but I was only seven, "And anyway, this is nothing like as bad, I promise."
I was going to add something about the local trees being much more mature than me but a sudden crunching crash from somewhere quite close snatched the thoughts out of my brain and the words out of my mouth.
"Mum! That was fu... really close!"
I stood up and patted my son's shoulder, "It was... fairly close, I will admit, but we're safe here, I'm sure!" It wasn't any such thing anymore but I tried not to let Philip see. "These woods have stood up to worse storms than this one."
Philip stood as well, "Yeah, but what if earlier storms weakened all the trees? What if they can't stand up to this one now?"
He had a point, "Well... I guess that could be true, but the cottage is a tough old thing."
"Old being the operative word, mum. This wreck of a place wouldn't take a hit from a sapling let alone a full-grown tree."
"Well... okay, maybe it is a bit fragile these days, but it's not like we dare go out there and drive somewhere else, is it?"
Philip shrugged, "I guess not, but sitting around here in the kitchen isn't much better."
I was convinced by then -- especially as a large branch chose that moment to clatter noisily across the roof before falling past the window in, I thought, an unnecessarily over-dramatic fashion. "I'm not sure the living room is much better. What do you suggest then? Crawling under a table like you're supposed to in earthquakes or something?"
"Under the stairs would be safer," he nodded towards a cupboard built below the old staircase.
It was a fair enough idea but then I remembered the mound of odds and ends cluttering that space, "It's full of junk in there and it would take an age to clear it. Where else is there?"
It seemed that all four of our eyes swivelled to the trapdoor set in the corner of the kitchen at the same moment.
"Oh, I'm not sure, Phil... there's no light down in the wine cellar and it's not exactly large, is it?"
"It makes sense though, mum. It's way safer than up here and it's not like we need much light anyway. Besides, we can use our phones if we need to see and there's plenty of room for two adults -- even if your latest diet didn't pan out."
Trust my son to try to make a joke of the situation. My latest diet hadn't panned out because firstly I was already trim enough and secondly because I had thumped the stupid bitch taking the weekly classes when she told me that my tits were still too big and couldn't I wear a bra sometimes so that I didn't keep distracting the men in attendance. "No way am I too porky, young man, and I'd appreciate less of your cheek!" I drew a deep breath. "And don't even go there," I added as I saw the comment about my butt rising in his mind.
"Who me?" he grinned, "What could you mean, anyway?"
Another tree falling close by interrupted any response I was forming, and also cleared any doubts I had about the wine-cellar. "Okay, let's do it -- but I go first and you can shut the trap. And your trap."
He made a gesture as if zipping his lips shut and we grabbed our phones before he opened the -- luckily -- thick trapdoor and motioned me down into the gloom.
We'd not used the cellar for wine -- other than one case of dodgy red that my mother had insisted we 'start our collection' with, less a bottle that I had sampled and now used to clean the sink -- and it was jammed with a clutter of cardboard boxes. Those mainly contained my collection of paperback books along with yet-to-be-used art supplies and clothing that wouldn't fit into the wardrobes and chests of drawers. Or which wouldn't fit me or my chest. I stepped gingerly down the rickety staircase and took up position leaning back against the nearest heap of boxes, ducking slightly thanks to the low ceiling beams, but leaving just enough space for Philip. He followed me down and awkwardly turned to face me, his back against the stairs, before pulling down on the door's old rope and encasing us in the dark.
I flipped my phone onto the 'torch' setting and shone it to the side so as not to blind either of us in the enclosed -- very enclosed -- space, "How long will it last do you think?"
I felt, rather than saw, my son shrug, "Who knows? But your phone's battery won't last long if you keep shining it like that."
"If I don't turn it off we can use yours when it dies."
"Mum, it's just darkness. If we do that and then I use mine until that one dies, then the storm could well outlast both of them and we'd be both in darkness and not able to call anyone if we need to."
He had a good point there but I hated darkness, "It would be so dark though!"
"You're a big girl now -- and no, I wasn't referring to the diet -- so are you telling me you're scared of the dark still?"
"No, of course not!" I was really, "But it's just so... unfriendly when it's dark." I searched for any other reason I could think of -- hopefully more reasonable than that one, "And... and... well we're not exactly dressed for the occasion, are we?" We were both already in nightwear -- me a nightie, panties and robe, and Philip in a robe and, hopefully, boxers.
"Mum! What difference does light make to that?"
"Well, I suppose not much."
He laughed, "No difference at all -- unless you want to eye me up."
"Philip!"
