Sasha's Girl free porn video

A bottle of Shiraz down, I'm stretched out on the sofa waiting for Horror at Midnight to kick in. Some sleazy backwater cable affair. Killing minutes, I skim the channels to stave off sleep, or maybe despair.

My fingers backtrack, alerted to the prospect of danger. The screen settles. That pretentious late-night BBC art's magazine programme A Room of Their Own. The earnest transmission of cutting-edge culture leaves no room for doubt. Heavy lidded, my eyes barely register Sasha's resurrection, the last shot at a new moment in the sun.

The presenter's introduction has unsettled my mid-life complacency:

"Tonight's guest is probably better known as Sasha Madden, onetime queen of grunge, and husband of rock legend Phil Madden. A woman with more feathers in her cap than most, now with her second novel about to hit the best-seller list, she can add celebrated author to her list of accolades. Good evening, Sasha — or should I call you Coral."

"Good evening, Myfanwy. Thank you for having me on the show. Sasha is fine."

"So do tell, Sasha, why the nome de Plume?

"Well, Myfanwy..."

The camera zooms in for a close-up of Coral/Sasha, and I'm spiralling sideways into an improbable past I wish I'd never lived. 

It as a sobering moment to see Sasha after all this time, her terminal celebrity status in remission. Ten years out of the public eye, she resurfaces re-created. The sight of her radiant from the camera's attention opens the lid on the satin-lined coffin of an anger I thought I'd buried years ago. Beneath the freshly plastered veneer of a successful authoress, the teenage Sasha I once knew beams out at me beneath the studio lights. The last time I was blessed by her company was sharing a table at the Emmy's with her and husband Phil — good old Phil anticipating the stage, his time to step up and accept his award. Outstanding Contribution to Music my arse!

 Even back then it had been six years since I last fucked Sasha. The band was no more, Phil flying solo. She'd put on weight, had eyes dead as roadkill.

 But on the telly, gushing about her new book launch, Sasha is no longer the self-caricature of burnt-out rock-chick. Bitter, decaying Sasha is gone, replaced by the sassy acute intelligence of Coral Savage, a being who illuminates the studio with her cleverness, her apt nods and smiles.

She talks about her writing, her life in Wales, her family and plans for the future.

"I just had to get away from The Business. I needed to discover the essential me. It was a Dark Night of the Soul, believe you me, Myfanwy!" 

There is a thrill in her voice when she moves on to talk of her "Epiphany". Later Sasha hints of a move to The States. But when Myfanwy asks her about husband Phil — fishing for the morsels the viewers are hoping for, — resentment curdles her voice. This appearance is supposed to be her moment, her chance to shine again. But as always, all roads lead back to Phil Madden. 

Phil was a band-mate, friends way before I began to fuck Sasha. I would fuck her every-which-way, long and hard whenever the opportunity arose. Mostly in her marital bed, those endless afternoons when Phil was busy mixing and putting the finishing touches to our Difficult Sixth. Phil! Always the perfectionist. Yep, I was fucking Sasha, weekdays, for the best part of a year. 

The resonance of so many betrayals. Mine, hers, Phil's — but mainly mine. Stains on my conscience. Even now I cringe. 

An attraction to the eighteen-year-old Phil was sown that very first time he rolled up at the studio with Sasha in tow. Apart from his looks, I could not let an opportunity like Phil Madden slip away. Intimations of his astonishing talent washed over me at the sound of those opening chords when he sat at the studio piano and played a cover of our first single. But I struggle to pinpoint the moment that admiration soured into resentment, the rage at comprehending the depth and breadth of his creative otherness.

But before the rot set in, when the songs fell from him like blessings, I remained spellbound by his almost girlish charm, his ceaselessly-amused eyes and disarming smile. But the attention I'd lavished on Phil Madden was not due only to the astonishing creativity I knew he would bring to the band. Even before I came to understand I was in the presence of a someone daemon-driven, my aim had not been true. It was not altruism that compelled me to talk the other band members into accepting him as the keyboard player. A deeper motive lay behind auditioning Phil for the band. It was merely a first step to bedding his then seventeen-year-old girlfriend, the astonishingly coy, and incomparably beautiful, Sasha Cornwall.

                                              *****

It is thirty years since I first met Phil Madden. Today is the first of July, and I move around Sasha and Phil's home virtually, rendered onscreen in crisp HD. With one click of the mouse, my consciousness beams from room to room of that white-walled Art Deco villa called Time & Tide, a landmark visible from the mainland. When driving along the A55, I'd often seen the house, its iconic white facade set into the hillside overlooking The Straights.

On the market for just over one million, but I wonder why anyone would want to leave such a fabulous abode. Are Sasha and Phil moving on to a bigger, brighter life, their destination that fabulous place where reality becomes genuinely astonishing? However, it's hard to imagine any dwelling out-trumping Tide & Time. Neither can I conceive of two lives more fulfilled than Phil and Sasha Madden's already are. Maybe this is a fire sale, their marriage unable to bear the weight of Sasha's newly rocketing success, a case of Everything Must Go.

But my initial satisfaction, my "gotcha!" gradually souring. My old envy for Phil returns, its blade flashing. The display of wealth is a reminder of what might have been my life. I click from room to room, my gaze meandering, eyes examing every objet-d'art, every abstract, landscape and portrait, each piece of furniture, the sumptuous curtains and upholstery. 

The platinum discs that line the far lounge wall mock my life's achievement. If only I had knuckled down, trod the road Phil had mapped out for the band.

I try to imagine Phil and Sasha's present life in situ. Maybe Phil at the baby grand penning his next classic rock ballad; Sasha in the den constructing her absurdly twisted plots. There will be friends over from The States. Long Saturday afternoon coastal walks, mid-Atlantic accents and laughter in the after-supper lines of blow. Are they still the same people I knew, loved, fucked? Do they remain slaves to the appetites I encouraged, nurtured in them both?

 I try not to dwell on that. Instead, I speculate about what the dynamic between Phil and me might be if we were ever to meet again. His A-list fabulousness long ago eclipsed my previous advantage of years, of hipness, mere technique. What a whirlwind my suave and groundless sense of superiority has reaped. Would I be to Phil what he was once to me: the little man?

I take consolation knowing I've had them both, gloat over how Phil squirmed that first time I buried my cock in his tight, late-teen arse. I smile smugly remembering that neither part of the happy couple knew I was fucking the other. The dream was for me to lie between them both, have the pair share me, make a fuss and adore me. 

I would broach my yearning with Sasha in the warm diffusion of sex's afterglow. But word it carefully so as not alarm her. The last thing I wanted was to betray her husband's indiscretions. But she would not take me on, evaded my hints as if an invitation to spend Christmas with the inlaws.

Out-of-body on the balcony of Tide & Time, overlooking the straights courtesy of UHD technology. The mountains opposite are snow-capped. The old Brunel road bridge to the west is stark in the winter sunlight, a morning in December captured by the agency photographer. I imagine driving across its expanse on my way to the house, a road I have travelled so many times. All those lost summers with Jan and the kids.

I shut down the computer and reach for the phone, surmising the Maddens have left the triviality of viewing to the agent. If not, my excuse will be instantaneous. 

The girl is reluctant to fit me in, her lyrical Welsh voice quizzing me about my financial status. My grating north midland accent has aroused scepticism, belies an overused claim to fame, my modest wealth. She says I will have to prove my solvency. But when I repeat my name, spell it out syllable by syllable, she does not ask again. What a change! She becomes wantonly biddable, drops the attitude like a crockpot reached mittless from the aga. It is a change so astonishing that I think of an old Not The Nine O'clock News sketch: "And would sir like to suck my titties?"

When people think of the band, "The Depths of Magenta", it's me as much as Phil Madden that springs to mind. I'm there in all the books, the trash that picks over eight catastrophic years. Ageing fans on Youtube still lionise my name: Mick Bastion, axe hero, vocalist extraordinaire. Shame that Phil Madden wrote all the later songs: the ones that took us to the stadiums; the ones from which Phil still shovels in the royalties; the ones I was stupid enough to allow Sasha to sing.

After the telephone conversation, I poke around the agent's site looking for an image of Robyn Hope, the person booked to show me around Tide & Time. 

There is the usual team shot. I count through the names beneath the photo and see Robyn. She is the girl fourth from the right. The late-teens/early-twenties-something-blonde with her left leg crossed over the right at the knee, one buttock half-perched on a reception desk, skirt riding high over her left thigh. 

She unnerves me. Robyn Hope smiling, giving me the come-on just like Sasha Madden gave me the come-on thirty years ago.

I zoom in, balloon the image: Robyn's features and skin remain digital-sharp even at full magnification. There is something about the girl's eyes that I wrestle with, try to articulate to myself. It's as if a connection forms, mycelium strands of meaning that traverse the years, waves of suchness ebbing back and forth through time. 

Her resemblance to a young Sasha Madden is incomprehensible. Look! She has the same fine blonde hair as Sasha, the same icy, deep-set aquamarine eyes. And the same self-serving smile. She presents herself to the photographer never doubting the lens will pick her out. The other three women merely frame her. She radiates the same incarnation of arrogance that Sasha once beamed, a cloak of self-satisfied disdain for the entire world, donned to deflect the intimacy of fools.

The mouse becomes a lash with which I try to extract more images of Robyn Hope. But I find only one other. Again among her colleagues, this time in front of the agent's window display. But there is no personhood here, no clues to an inner life, just the bland face of corporate commitment, the professional blandness of messers Briggs and Metcalf.

The night before my drive to Wales, I imagine the middle-aged Sasha showing Robyn Hope around her home, an intimate tour of Tide & Time. The old jealousy is awake in me. Memories of Sasha become a poltergeist haunting that shifts the furniture of my mind. Ten years lost to booze was no exorcism at all.

 I re-live how Sasha began to prefer girls as lovers. Her taste for skinny, pretty young things a red rag waved, used to torment when I stupidly allowed my demonstrations of need to eclipse good sense. In those days, Sasha could untangle my sanity with less than a careless glance.

Look but don't touch, her eyes would tell me with a sly sparkle as she captured her latest pet-to-be. And I would watch from a distance as she devoured her prey, hovering at the edge of the dance floor like a half-starved jackal at the kill of a lioness. 

I push down those memories of a heart-wrenching past and conjure a fantasy of Sasha setting an ambushed for Robyn Hope. Allaying the girl's doubts with sweet endearments, she undresses her, lays her down on that enormous bed of theirs. I become immersed in a cougar and kitten fantasy scene of the most debased type. A vision of mother and daughter porn unfolds beneath the sheets of that great slab of a mattress at the heart of Time & Tide.

                                          *****

The VW Golf in the drive must be Robyn's. I pull up, park bumper to bumper and then turn off the engine. She will want to be standing to greet me, so I wait and watch until the driver's door opens. 

I'm disappointed, had hoped for a skirt and invisible hose as she wears in the agent's publicity photos. Instead, it's tailored slacks and jacket. Her hair chignon-tamed is immaculate. She throws a glance my way, a smile before opening her car's rear door to extract a valise.

I am out of my car, clutching the documents that prove I am valid — my bank books and passport.

"Hi," she says, holding out her hand. Her grip is firm and dry, professional. "Did you have a good journey?"

We exchange more pleasantries. Robyn is personable, is all too ready with smiles to set me at ease. I find her far more friendly than I imagined from the few words we exchanged on the phone. Before she opens the front door to the property, she turns to me and tells me she knows the old band's stuff, how her father would play our early CDs in the car on their annual drive to Devon. 

"I can't believe it's you," she tells me. "I've always loved your voice. But I thought you were —" She catches the incoming words, turns quickly away.

"Most people do." 

She does not respond. She has opened the front door and stepped inside the house where she waits for me in the vestibule like an unfaithful wife welcoming her afternoon lover. I'm still smarting from her comment. But she has moved on, now sprouting pure agent-speak that she reels off as if from a script. 

It takes me a moment to realise we have commenced the viewing, to come to terms with a glibness beyond decency. There will be no stopping Robyn until she has completed her read-through.

But I know this house better than she does, every rug, vase and Rock 'n' Roll nick-nack. In the lounge, when she slides open the glass door to the wall-length picture window that leads to the balcony outside, I ask:  

"Have you met either of the Maddens?" 

"Mr Metcalf deals personally with our more prestigious clients," she says. There is resentment in her voice as she continues, "leaves all the legwork to his lackeys."

 And then, as if remembering who I am, her momentum through the patio door stalls again. She turns to me and speaks, throws words to me from beyond the threshold: "I've been reading up on your band. You and Mr Madden have quite a history."

"Isn't researching the backgrounds of potential buyers a little beyond the call of duty?" I ask, then add: "But I'm impressed. Mick Murphy's hatchet job on Wiki, I suppose?"

"I prefered Jeff Connell's, Fear & Loathing in Burslem." She beams me a tight smile.

"Good old Jeff Connell. Why spoil a good Rock 'n' Roll yarn with facts, eh?" I catch the acid clamouring on my tongue, tell myself, don't be the bastard they all say you are. I hurridly re-route the conversation. "So are you really into this shit?" I ask, extending my arm to take in the surroundings, "Houses? Real estate, as they say over the pond?"

"I take pride in everything I do. Take our band, for instance. Sasha has always inspired..." 

She's in a band. Why am I surprised? "You're a lot like her." 

"I'm not a natural blonde, though."

"Still... You have Sasha's look, her later certainty. It's even there in your work photo."

"Who's the spy now?" 

"Just putting a face to a voice."

"And did you like what you saw?"

"I like what I see now," I say, trying to re-engage her as she continues out to the balcony. I call after her, "I bet you're the singer, eh?"

She turns and comes back inside. "I write music too — most of the band's songs are mine."

"I'd like to hear your stuff, " I tell her, spinning a half-truth that will further my cause."

She reaches into her jacket and pulls out her phone. "Do you mind?" she asks, holding it up. "We can listen as we continue with the viewing if that's okay?" Her eyes beam a victory.

"Be my guest."

Acoustic guitar, soon underscored by discordant piano notes that search for a melody. Then double bass and a Moog's haunting backcloth. I'm waiting for her voice. And when it arrives, affecting a childlike uncertainty, that matures and overwhelms, I think, Of course she is this good. Words from me will not be adequate; the house, Sasha and my past are momentarily forgotten.

Until the stairs, I remain entranced by her music. But during the ascent, the shift of her buttocks beneath her slacks prompts other thoughts. When we reach the landing, the gallery-like space which skirts and looks down over the entrance vestibule, I tell her:

"Your music is as beautiful as you are."

 She stops and turns to face me again, a questioning uncertainty in her eyes that causes me to doubt myself. Am I out of order? Have I misread her?

 But I have unfurled my colours, a boarding party set to swing. "Let me rephrase that: you are as beautiful as your music."

She smiles and turns off her phone. "That's sweet," she says while tucking it back quietly into her purse. "— And this is the master bedroom."

I know every inch of this room: the enormous bed, the occasional chairs, the dresser. But there is a door I have never seen beyond, which from the agent's blurb I know leads to a dressing room, through which lies an ensuite tucked away discreetly in the corner of the upper floor. And somewhere beyond that door, supposedly, another space. The Retreat.

I go over to the picture window. It too has views over the straits. The tide is rising, inundating the channel with the speed of a Japanese coastal catastrophe. Robyn stands by my side. Unprofessionally close. So close that I feel her body's warmth. I can taste her youthful femininity diffused in the air between us — the tang of her morning shampoo and shower. The mountains in the distance are no longer snow-capped. 

"Do you resent them?" she asks.

I turn and look at her, unsure of her tack.

 "—The Maddens?"

 "Why should I resent them?"

"Knowing I would be meeting you today, last night I thought a lot about it. Y'know: what it would be like to be you: Mick Bastion, axe hero. I'd want to get your take on all this. You know: you and Phil Madden.

"It's not so bad being a just a legend; I can afford all of this... Just about — If I cash some bonds, sell the Jag and house, auction the remaining song rights off to some pension fund. 

"There's something the Maddens wouldn't let us show online." 

"Oh," I say, happy for the change of subject. 

"It's so cool. Come and see. It's through here."

She opens the mysterious door and goes into darkness, dispels it with the tug of a cord. 

I follow her through, find myself in a narrow room at least twenty feet in length. On one side are racks of women's shoes; on the other is a length of doorless wardrobes containing rows and rows of women's garments arranged tidily on their hangers above sets of pale wooden drawers. 

Robyn walks the length of the space while dreamily stretching out her right arm, her fingers grazing the hanging garments as she passes by. It is the touch of a witch that momentarily imbues the fabrics with life, bestows the promise of animation to summer dresses, business suits, tops and blouses, awakening dormant evening gowns,

"Oh, my! What have we here?" she says, suddenly stopping and turning to reach for a dress left dormant in clear plastic. It only one among many other garments in this section of the wardrobe similarly protected. There is a hiss of plastic against plastic as she draws one of the long clear bags from its resting place among the others.

"What do you think?" She holds the dress still in plastic flat against her body.

"Why not go the whole-hog and try it on!" I am at a loss.

She looks around as if expecting Sasha to appear and scold her for messing with her stuff. "Promise not to tell," she says, smiling now while placing the dress down on a central cushion-topped bench before taking off her tailored jacket.

For a moment I think she's joking. But when the jacket is gone and her fingers start to unbutton her blouse, my bemusement turns instantly into arousal. Buttons unfastened, she extracts her arms from sleeves. The sight of her tanned flesh has me in the grip of a sexual current so intense it physically takes my breath away. I inhale and try to calm myself while watching Robyn strip down to her undies, cute, lacey black bras and matching knickers.

I struggle to resist the pull of her hips, anticipate my arms around her long waist, my chest against her breasts. The sight of her bare flesh, her youth and limber, draw me out of my depth into waters I am not competent to swim through. Undressing like this, she has transgressed the bounds of decency and thrown professional etiquette out of the window, done for reasons I cannot fathom. Her utter disregard for convention, the ease with which she now transgresses boundaries thrills me like nothing ever has. I find the moment deliciously indecent.

But it is something beyond her half-nakedness that affects me, has silenced me. I can only watch as she picks up the dress again, removes the protective plastic and lets it fall to the floor. It is not quite a fit. Too tight. She does a little shimmy when she pulls the accommodating material over her hips, her arms quickly finding their rightful places in elbow-length sleeves. She brushes down creases before turning her back on me and saying, "Would you do me up, please?"

But I do not move, stand captivated by a vision of the past. I recognise this dress. It is the one Sasha wore every night on our US tour back in ninety-five, the one she wears in that omnipresent photo that is fast becoming a cliche for those times. The garment is an iconic piece of Rock memorabilia, its sequin encrusted fabric the repository a saintly relic that has garnered the stage light of unnumberable gig. The fabric appears to hum with an ethereal glamour; it seeps from the stitches, suffuses this sad little space with its essence.

She has taken a scent bottle from a ledge, her hands confident in their choice as she dabs her neck lightly. Then turning to see why I am not attending to her, following instructions, she asks, "You okay, Mick Bastion?" Her expression is one of puzzled concern.

"It''s that dress —"

"I know! Isn't it fabulous? Are you going to do me up or what? You can loosen my hair too."

I stand directly behind her and liberate her hair from its shackles. She shakes her head to send silken strands tumbling down over her shoulders, filling my field of vision with fragrant filaments of flaxen silk. Her cosmetics' subtlety is a haunting: it has no business in the here and now. I inhale deeply, imbibe the essence of Sasha, her unique fragrance that sends my mind tumbling back to a time that I thought irretrievably lost. I surrender myself to the incoming storm of nostalgia and lust.

The impulse to reach around her is impossible to resist, take her neat breasts in both of my palms. I use every iota of my will to maintain control, concentrate on finding the zipper tab that will seal her into Sasha's past.

Stage clothes snug as cerements, Robyn walks to the free-standing mirror at the dressing room's far end situated between two other doors. She presents herself to the mirror in profile and adjusts the fabric's fall, its hold on her body. And when she turns to face her reflection again, I see the feral delight that animates her features. 

Speaking while facing the mirror, her back still to me: "She's such a bitch."

"Who?" I ask.

"Sasha Madden."

"I thought you'd never met her."

"I lied."

"Why would you?"

"Sasha is my mother. I've always wanted to meet you, Mick — get to know who my father is."

I hold up my hands, "Whoa, young lady! Phil's your father. You can count me out?" 

"I know all about you and Mummy."

"When's your birthday, sweetheart?" 

"The tenth of January two-thousand."

"I wasn't fucking your mother back then, darling. They'd kicked me out of my own fucking band. You've read the book." I'm seething inside. I try to dampen down the fury. "So, if you are Phil and Sasha Madden's sprog, why the fuck are you working in some poxy Welsh estate agent's office."

"You never heard of summer jobs? Though I might make a career of it. You get to meet the most fascinating people."

"And I suppose you've told your mum about me, how you booked me in for a good snoop around her house?"

"I said, didn't I? I fucking hate her. I hate what's she's done to Daddy, to Gabriel and me. All those stories in that awful book. She hasn't changed, you know."

"Where's this going, Robyn?" I ask her.

She turns and walks towards me, and I can sense Sasha behind the ice-blue of her eyes.

 "Don't you want to hit back, take revenge on how she treated you?"

"I don't hold grudges." If only you knew.

"So why are you snooping around the house, then? Looking for signs of decay, hoping to poke some rot?"

She is standing so close, a callous determination in her gaze. Her hands reach out and come to rest on my hips, draws me to her. I push hard against her with my hips, let her know how my cock feels about her revelations. Her breasts reciprocate, rest plush against my ribs while her breath feathers my cheek as she whispers in my ear:

"They say I'm just like Mother when she was my age. Do you want me to be her? I bet you'd love to fuck Sasha Madden just one more time? One for old times sake, eh, Mick? I'll keep my mouth shut, won't say a word. I promise. It'll be just like you're fucking her again."

"But you're not her, though. Are you?"

"I can be — if that's what it takes."

Her hand reaches down to slide between us, starts to massage my cock through my Levis. 

"Why are you doing this, Robyn?" I ask. My voice is almost a whimper. I use her name to dispel the illusion of Sasha.

"I have my reasons — revenge being number one. From what I've read, you have good reason to hate Mommy too. And she hates you too; did you know that? What a hate fest this becoming! She and Daddy were never the same after he confessed how you seduced him.  And then, of course, Mommy had to tell him all about your affair. For how many weeks were you fucking her? Oh, I forgot. It went way beyond months, didn't it. Two years, wasn't it, according to Mommy's secret journal."

Robyn's words are surgical incisions that cut deep, reach the heart of the tumour. Perhaps the radical surgery of revenge is the only option left open to me if I am ever to rid myself of Sasha's spell. I remember it all, the best and worst in obsessive detail: those afternoons with Sasha, her insatiability, her softness and willingness to accommodate my bottomless catalogue of perversity. And the times I spent with Phil too. The taste of his cock, his passivity as I penetrated him, the squeeze of his arse around my cock as I pummeled him.

Might-have-been, could-have-been, should-have-been. Thoughts of her mother and father tumble over each other, images of the parental couple coalescing with the lithe youth of their daughter, her all-too-immediate femininity and beauty. My skull houses a snake pit of absurd meanings that curl and slighter. They wrap and squeeze the juice of rationality from my mind. Soon only pith and peel remain. 

And then I am kissing Robyn like a man starved of women for twenty years. Her mouth readily accommodates my passion as she jettisons all decorum, the control she has so mercilessly exercised over me. Now she is just like her mother at seventeen, the gauche yet irresistible Sasha Devon — the insatiable Sasha Madden. The agent flag of convenience is lowered. Now Robyn's true colours are unfurled, her tongue gone rogue inside my mouth. 

We break from kissing. She nuzzles her chin into my neck, her lips tongue and teeth gently working the sensitive flesh. 

"I'll play your game — but only if you tell me you love me, say it the way Sasha used to say it." I'm begging her, breathless from twenty years of fantasy and lust for this girl's mother. "Say it like your mother used to say it. Say, I love you, Mick. Say it as she said it when she meant it."

She parodies her mother's tone, the regional accent Sasha and I share but which a childhood raised in Wales has erased from Robyn's bloodline. 

"Oh, Mick. I tossed and turned all last night, knowing we would meet again. All these years, I've thought of this moment." 

It's not how I imagined. Robyn is not a good actress.

I cringe, I tell myself to forget Sasha, concentrate on what you have here, right and now. This beautiful young girl has handed herself to you. My palms cradle Robyn's butt cheeks to draw her harder against me. It's as if my life depends on her, even though I know the gulf of years between us is the stuff of scandals. It's years since I've held a girl this young in my arms.

But I cannot dispel the illusion of double exposure. I have to remind myself that this is not Sasha, have to repeat to myself this is not Sasha, not Sasha, not Sasha, not Sasha. My cock is bole-solid against her abdomen, an un-pricked Cumberland in a pan bursting its skin. 

She is not Sasha. She is not Sasha! Now that I have her again, I will not risk losing her. 

But it is Robyn Hope as Robyn Hope who reaches up with both her hands and cups my cheeks, holds my head in place so that I can do nothing but attend to her eyes. They are her mother's eyes, and I do not doubt it. Perhaps if I step back, let my gaze sweep over her from crown to toes, I can rid myself of the delusion of Sasha. 

"I want you to fuck me," she says while pinning me with a look incapable of accepting refusal. "And I want to film you fucking me. There are cameras in every room — no place to hide from Daddy's ridiculous security. Mother has to understand what she has done to me. I don't want her to miss a moment of your visit." 

But I'm not listening, have not taken on board the implications of what she is saying, do not even ask why the fuck do you want to film us. All I want is to plunge my tongue into her mouth again. But her grip either side of my skull is resilient. She is determined I listen to her truth, the meanings that have brought us both to this moment.

"Seeing you fuck me is what she deserves. I want to be there when she understands who her daughter has become, the kind of person genes and upbringing have produced. I want to be close enough to smell their despair when they realise who I am, the sick fruit of their filthy union."

With such a beautiful girl in my arms, my cock could not give more of a shit about the platter of revenge she wants to serve up to her mother. Chilled or warm, I do not care. It's enough to have Sasha and Phil Madden's daughter to enjoy for an hour or two. That is if this is real and not some bizarre erotic dream. If it is a dream, I hope it is one I will not prematurely wake from — not just yet, that is.

If anything, I fall deeper into this incomprehensible improbability of a fantasy made flesh. Sometimes long-indulged sexual reveries do not scrub up in reality. But this moment is beyond anything years of imagining Sasha in my arms has ever promised. 

She is talking, talking, talking, spilling her bile. What twists of logic it takes to rationalise inflicting nemesis on your own mother. 

Meaning finds no traction, hard words that skip the shallows of my thoughts like flat skimming pebbles failing in the surf. My hand is between her legs, the heel of my palm hard against her mons, my fingers lost in panty silk. I ease my hand back and forth, worming my fingers into the expanding space between her butt cheeks.

She insists I listen, extracting my hand from the embrace of butt-flesh. She holds them flat against my sides while her eyes guard against any slippage of my attention.

When she is content, certain I understand my part, Robyn kisses me again in a darkly satisfying token of her gratitude. She is in mode; her plan is on course, her kiss all gusto and certainty. My tongue responds gamely.

She breaks off and tells me to wait here, finally says, "Give me ten minutes and then come to my room — the one across the hall."

I know the room from Zoopla. A girl child's room with its stuffed toys, boyband posters, single bed, its dresser-top nick-nacks.

"That's your room?" I ask.

"It was once. The perfect place to despoil a mother's illusions, the shrine to her dead darling, don't you think?"

"Just perfect." 

But my lust momentarily subsides as Robyn's words begin to impact on the little-used rational part of my brain. Do I resent Sasha and Phil enough to destroy their parental illusion? Perhaps not — but I'd be a fool to pass on a chance to re-enact history. Or just plain foolish to forfeit the opportunity to fuck a beautiful woman. Do I have the strength of character to forgo Robyn's promise merely for conscience's sake?

It's a no-brainer. 

I go to the window to wait for my stage-call, taking in the incredible vista. I hear the muffled clunk of the door closing behind her and wait a second before turning around. I wander the room stoking the same-old, same-old, tired fantasies about the gorgeous people their celebrity will have lured here, the men and women they might have shared in this bed. After all, I corrupted them both, sewed the initial thread of depravity into their souls, sent stitch after stitch running through the fabric of their lives. All that baseness, fodder for the gonzo journalists, columns of salacious scandal music press approved. I've read it all and wept.

                                 *******

 She sits at her dresser with its girlish clutter pushed back to the mirror to make room for an electronic keyboard. She begins to play, and then to sing. The childlike timbre of her voice is the saddest thing, its simple melody a spell to enchant, rid me of cares. But it's beauty has dissonance, is sullied by my expectation of her utter depravity.

I follow her script, stand behind her stroking her air as she plays. My finger slide through fair and silken tresses, delve to the curved goose length of a neck to become a strangler's finger that cuff and squeeze, but not enough to throttle and rob her of her voice.

I am the bad man, the one who will poison the house, a revenant, the despoiler of Sahsa's promise, commissioned by a revengeful daughter to poison years of parental care and dreams. All those plans for Robyn dismissed by plots and schemes hatched in disappointment and anger: a crossed lover's resentment; a daughters bitterness watered by betrayal.

Beyond the keyboard, in the dresser mirror, movements without sound draw my eye to a wall-mounted screen. Robyn's song becomes a soundtrack, a lament. But it is a moment before I understand.

The girl's eyes in the mirror study me as an absurd truth dawns. And all the while, her fingers continue to run the keys even when her singing has ended. 

"His name is Gabriel," she tells me. "He was just eighteen when we married. I thought he would always love me."

"The lad?"

"Just watch."

"And your mother showed this to you?"

"Not this particular session. There is other footage too — so much of it, Gabriel and people from their clique. But this is Gabriel's induction, his initiation into heir ways. I found this copy later, along with Mommy's diaries. She writes everything down, you know. Has done ever since she was sixteen. The early ones are full of you. Mick this, Mick that. That first time you fucked her up the arse. All her life, sex is how she made things happen; how she got the world to be just as she needs it to be, how as it is right now."

She turns from me and looks up at the screen. "I watch this one whenever I can. I like to remind myself of who they both are." 

Robyn's husband is a fair looking youth. Lantern-jawed, muscular, I see his astonishing physique revealed as Sasha and Phil ease him — less-bewildered now — out of his T-shirt. There remains a dazed acquiescence in his eyes, him hardly believing what his inlaws have initiated. Soon his arousal is beyond doubt. The outline of his erection beneath denim looks the painful kind. I imagine how he would taste as Sasha and Phil scatterer kisses over his chest. His eyes are tight shut — as if cajoled into staging bliss in the seediest of porn.

They take turns to speak to him between licks and incessant bites and nipping. They coddle and reassure him with sweet words that Robyn and I cannot hear. Phil loosens Gabriel's belt, its leather sliding through steel, a cobra ripped from its nest. Button, zipper, his cock fully extracted from boxers. Plump, engorged, circumcised. I imagine the taste of him while wondering who is filming the unfolding seduction. My cock like cast-concrete, screeching its need from the almost forgotten allure of a youth's hard cock. It is too many years since I fucked a lad as gorgeous as Gabriel Hope.

I ease myself behind Robyn as she remains at the keyboard. She continues to play while her eyes stay fixed on the screen's debauchery reflected in the mirror, mesmerised by filial sexual carnage. She hardly notices my hands as they slide down over the bare flesh, her dress-framed upper chest, slipping into theTo continue reading this story you must be a member. Join for FREE here.