Read Online DONNA AND THE FATMAN (Crime Thriller Fiction) by Helen Zahavi - Free Book Online
Authors: Helen Zahavi
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difficult, I’ll have to be firm.’
‘I’m allergic, see . . . ’
Her brain moved fast.
‘ . . . to sperm.’
He paused.
‘You mean the creamy stuff?’
‘The very same.’
Which shut him up for a good few seconds. He sucked his teeth and gazed at her. Fixed her with his piggy eye.
‘You’re serious, right? Not having me on? Cause I’m quite devoid of humour, where my privates are concerned.’
‘I’m sure you are, and I wouldn’t dare.’
He was looking doubtful.
‘Why’d you come here, then?’
‘Because you asked me, Henry. For tea,’ she added. ‘Scones and things. Toast and honey and Radio Four.’
‘Honey?’
‘Yeah.’
‘In luck, then, aren’t you.’
He picked up the jar and examined the label.
‘Marks & Sparks. That good enough?’
‘It’s lovely ,’ she breathed. ‘You’re a very sweet man.’
‘I know I am.’ He peeled off his pants. ‘Can’t help it, really.’
And he stood before her, completely naked, pink and gleaming in the light. Oh shit, she thought. Oh buggeration. He passed her the jar and a silver teaspoon.
‘You smearing, then?’
‘ You smear, Henry. I’m too excited.’
He led her into the bathroom, an endless expanse of chrome and tile, and perched his frame on a wooden stool. Unscrewing the lid, for she likes to be helpful, she placed the jar on the laundry box.
‘I’m glad we’ve got that sorted,’ he muttered, ‘because I made it all nice, even changed the sheets.’
Grunting slightly as he leaned his weight forward, he dipped his hand in the open jar and scooped out a generous glob. Then he parted his legs and anointed himself, spreading it over the purple sack, the veined and baggy Henry pouch, which contained his modest orbs. The slap of skin on tender skin. The pleasures of the flesh.
‘For you, this is,’ he reminded her. ‘So come on, darling . . . ’
He sucked his fingers, one by one.
‘ . . . .make an old man happy.’
She gazed, entranced, at the glistening mess. The words ‘horrified fascination’ slipped, unbidden, into her brain. Henry was dripping on the floor. His belly hung discreetly down, not quite obscuring the bits and bobs, the moist and waiting succulence, that nestled coyly between his thighs. The air, she realized, smelled of milk and honey. She had reached her promised land.
‘You’re looking good,’ she commented. ‘Looking really yummy, Henry.’
She stared at him, and knew she couldn’t do it. Not for Joe. Not even for money, and she’d always been quite keen on money.
‘Suppose I’d better get undressed, then, hadn’t I.’
She edged towards the doorway.
‘Pin my hair up, type of thing.’
He scratched his armpit.
‘I’ll be waiting, sugar.’
She blew him a kiss.
‘Don’t start without me.’
She stepped into the bedroom and closed the door, her heart pulsating in her chest. Had she been the type who sweats, one might have noticed perspiration. The cash still waited on the bedside table. It was hers, she reasoned. She’d done her bit, she’d earned it, fair and square. She’d watched him spreading honey on his thingy, so the dosh belonged to her.
She smoothly palmed the notes and stuffed them in her bag. A couple of minutes was what she reckoned. Two clear minutes before a sudden roar of comprehension, a bellow of slick and dripping rage, would bring the minions running.
She left the bedroom and padded along the corridor. She hoped there wouldn’t be a scene, no confrontation, or other aggravation. She began to make her way downstairs. Don’t run, she thought, for ladies never run. Girlies might, but ladies don’t. Down the first flight, along the landing, down the second, and she’s nearly there. Joey outside, and she’s nearly there. She rounded the bend, and:
‘My, my, my . . . ’
Merv was standing in the hall, leaning against the steel-backed door. Gloomy down there, just a single bulb. The Fatman saving pennies. He watched her coming down the
‘I’m allergic, see . . . ’
Her brain moved fast.
‘ . . . to sperm.’
He paused.
‘You mean the creamy stuff?’
‘The very same.’
Which shut him up for a good few seconds. He sucked his teeth and gazed at her. Fixed her with his piggy eye.
‘You’re serious, right? Not having me on? Cause I’m quite devoid of humour, where my privates are concerned.’
‘I’m sure you are, and I wouldn’t dare.’
He was looking doubtful.
‘Why’d you come here, then?’
‘Because you asked me, Henry. For tea,’ she added. ‘Scones and things. Toast and honey and Radio Four.’
‘Honey?’
‘Yeah.’
‘In luck, then, aren’t you.’
He picked up the jar and examined the label.
‘Marks & Sparks. That good enough?’
‘It’s lovely ,’ she breathed. ‘You’re a very sweet man.’
‘I know I am.’ He peeled off his pants. ‘Can’t help it, really.’
And he stood before her, completely naked, pink and gleaming in the light. Oh shit, she thought. Oh buggeration. He passed her the jar and a silver teaspoon.
‘You smearing, then?’
‘ You smear, Henry. I’m too excited.’
He led her into the bathroom, an endless expanse of chrome and tile, and perched his frame on a wooden stool. Unscrewing the lid, for she likes to be helpful, she placed the jar on the laundry box.
‘I’m glad we’ve got that sorted,’ he muttered, ‘because I made it all nice, even changed the sheets.’
Grunting slightly as he leaned his weight forward, he dipped his hand in the open jar and scooped out a generous glob. Then he parted his legs and anointed himself, spreading it over the purple sack, the veined and baggy Henry pouch, which contained his modest orbs. The slap of skin on tender skin. The pleasures of the flesh.
‘For you, this is,’ he reminded her. ‘So come on, darling . . . ’
He sucked his fingers, one by one.
‘ . . . .make an old man happy.’
She gazed, entranced, at the glistening mess. The words ‘horrified fascination’ slipped, unbidden, into her brain. Henry was dripping on the floor. His belly hung discreetly down, not quite obscuring the bits and bobs, the moist and waiting succulence, that nestled coyly between his thighs. The air, she realized, smelled of milk and honey. She had reached her promised land.
‘You’re looking good,’ she commented. ‘Looking really yummy, Henry.’
She stared at him, and knew she couldn’t do it. Not for Joe. Not even for money, and she’d always been quite keen on money.
‘Suppose I’d better get undressed, then, hadn’t I.’
She edged towards the doorway.
‘Pin my hair up, type of thing.’
He scratched his armpit.
‘I’ll be waiting, sugar.’
She blew him a kiss.
‘Don’t start without me.’
She stepped into the bedroom and closed the door, her heart pulsating in her chest. Had she been the type who sweats, one might have noticed perspiration. The cash still waited on the bedside table. It was hers, she reasoned. She’d done her bit, she’d earned it, fair and square. She’d watched him spreading honey on his thingy, so the dosh belonged to her.
She smoothly palmed the notes and stuffed them in her bag. A couple of minutes was what she reckoned. Two clear minutes before a sudden roar of comprehension, a bellow of slick and dripping rage, would bring the minions running.
She left the bedroom and padded along the corridor. She hoped there wouldn’t be a scene, no confrontation, or other aggravation. She began to make her way downstairs. Don’t run, she thought, for ladies never run. Girlies might, but ladies don’t. Down the first flight, along the landing, down the second, and she’s nearly there. Joey outside, and she’s nearly there. She rounded the bend, and:
‘My, my, my . . . ’
Merv was standing in the hall, leaning against the steel-backed door. Gloomy down there, just a single bulb. The Fatman saving pennies. He watched her coming down the
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