The spark between them was instantaneous.

Neither of them could deny it.

From the very start they both felt as if they had known each other forever.

They laughed at the same things, shared the same political ideas, both thought religion was nonsense and even ordered the same meal as each other off the menu.

They just clicked.

It felt easy.


It was anything but natural.


The first time he kissed me it came as a surprise. I had longed for it but dared not think he wanted the same thing.

We had been walking in the park, throwing stale bread into the lake for the ducks when the rain hit us without warning. I remember I screamed at the sudden downpour and he took my hand in his and we ran to the bandstand for shelter. As we caught our breath, giggling and wiping our wet faces, his hand remained holding mine. We looked down at our entwined fingers and back up and he leaned down and kissed me; the gentlest, sweetest kiss I had ever received. Before I knew it his hands were in my wet hair and his tongue was on mine, our bodies pressed together as if we never wanted to let go.

I felt like I had come home.

Breaking the kiss, he looked at me. Really looked at me.

His eyes scanned my face, a slight frown on his brow, nothing but concern in his eyes, “I’m sorry, was that wrong? That was wrong, wasn’t it?” he whispered. I could smell coffee on his breath.

“Did it feel wrong?” I asked.

“It felt just so right, Nicola. Like… the rightest thing I’ve ever done.”

I giggled, “That’s not even a word!” and whether it was right or not seemed to fade away.


I think I fell in love with her the moment she walked into the café. Her short brown bob framing her face so perfectly, her tentative glance around to find me; then, when she turned those grey blue eyes on me I was done for.

We had been exchanging emails for months, getting to know one another, and had nervously agreed to meet in person. Looking at her, I was terrified and delighted in equal measure. This girl was going to change my life.

After our first kiss that day in the park, we had talked for hours back at my house. It was all I could do to keep my hands off her, but we agreed to take things slowly. We knew this was a dangerous and fragile thing we were embarking on. It needed to be approached properly.

I made her dinner and afterwards we sat on the sofa, her feet on my lap.

“Look at your little toes! God they are cute, what size shoes do you wear Nic?” I’d asked her. She really did have the most delicate, tiny feet I had ever seen on a woman.

“Two. I have to buy them in the kids department, “she giggled and wiggled her toes as I tickled her soles, “Stop!” she squealed and wriggled some more. Her skirt rode up her thighs as she squirmed. I saw her pants, white lace, and froze. The desire to reach out and touch her was overwhelming. Our eyes met. We knew this was a pivotal moment.

She surprised me by parting her legs, providing me with a clear view of the crotch of her pants. I saw they were damp already.

“Are you sure?” I asked her. She nodded. Her breath ragged, her face flushed.

My fingers touched the lace. She gasped. I hooked my finger and pulled the fabric to one side so I could see her. She was smooth, glistening wet and absolutely the most beautiful thing I had ever laid eyes on.


I will never forget the first time he kissed me down there.

He had pulled my pants off and simply admired me for a few minutes, whispering how much he loved what I looked like. His fingers has caressed me and then he dipped his head between my thighs and planted soft butterfly kisses all along my lips, his nose rubbing off my swollen clit. God he was good! He knew what he was doing. I came within minutes, spasming helplessly on his leather sofa, calling out his name. He lifted up and looked deep into my eyes and said, “I love you Nicola,” and kissed me before I had the chance to say it back.


I held her in my arms after we had made love for the first time, my face nestled in her messed up hair, smelling her caramel scented shampoo. I had never felt as complete or as happy as I did then, despite the dark cloud that lingered over us. It needed to be discussed. I looked down at her, her eyes closed in sleep, a light buzzing from her lips which made me smile. It could wait.


I woke up to the smell of coffee and bacon and the sound of him singing along to the radio. He had quite a good voice, doing a decent attempt at the Ed Sheeran song playing. Pulling on a discarded tee shirt of his I walked to the kitchen and secretly watched him for a few minutes before joining in the song. He startled at first but a massive smile broke out over his stubbled face and I felt my heart soar.

We ate breakfast sitting on his patio, watching the birds feed from the wire baskets he had hung on the trees. He was edgy. I knew we were going to talk, but I dreaded it. I didn’t want to allow reality to ruin what we had discovered.

“Nic, we have to talk about this.”

I sighed, “Yes, I know…”

“So, where do we go from here?”

An unexpected flash of anger flared in me and I snapped, “Well, you’re older, you tell me,” and immediately felt foolish for my outburst.

“Yes, I am. It’s pretty standard for a father to be older that his daughter isn’t it?” he was hurt too.

I physically flinched from his words. But they were out there now.

“You don’t feel like my father. When I look at you I don’t see my father. I see Dan. The man I met months ago online, the man I love. My father is back home with my Mum in the house I grew up in,” there were tears in my eyes, “You are not my father!”

“Like it or not, I am. I was a fucking kid. 15 years old and clueless and we couldn’t keep you. But the fact remains. It’s true. I hate it,” his voice cracked but he went on, “I can’t explain this. I didn’t sleep at all last night. I look at you and I don’t feel you are my daughter. I’m in love with you. How can that be?” The despair on his face broke my heart.

I reached out to him. He didn’t resist my touch, but drew me in to lean on his chest. I climbed onto his lap and nestled there as we cried together.

“I can’t lose you. I can’t bear to,” I mumbled between sobs, “No-one has to know. We could make this work.”


Her beautiful eyes filled with tears, but an expression of sheer hope on her face as she looked up at me from my lap. I had no idea what to do, but I knew I couldn’t lose her, not because of a fucking genetic mishap.

Yes she was my daughter, but that was just biology. I hadn’t raised her, hadn’t watched her grow up. This was different. This wasn’t abuse.

I had finally left bed after lying staring at the ceiling all night and gone online. We weren’t the only ones. Genetic sexual attraction they called it. There were Internet forums for god’s sake!

I looked down at her and thought, “She’s right, no one has to know. We can be together and be happy. We can do this.”

I cupped her face in my hands and kissed her, feeling her smile against my lips.



It might be a wee bit tenuous, but I think I can just about manage to link this to Rebel’s prompt, “Identity” this week!

Copyright, 2016,

All rights reserved.


Moral Mondays -The Itch

She clawed her skin; ragged fingernails drew blood from the open scabs on her face.

Nothing stopped the itching; nothing.

Eyes, rabid and vacant, scanned the room for something to use. She needed to let the bugs out before they drove her crazy.

Her mouth dry, jaw clenched impossibly tight, she sprinted barefoot across the sticky floor towards the sink, her hands jerking as she tossed aside dirty dishes.

Smashing the wine glass, she lifted the shard to her face and carved an arc across her cheek, feeling her hot blood flow down her throat.

The itching; it never stops.



This week’s Moral Monday is ‘say no to drugs’. The aim is to write a story of 100 words or fewer on the theme.

See here for full Ts and Cs.

Copyright, 2016,

All rights reserved.


Magda opened her eyes. She turned and looked at the snoring man next to her; his mouth agape, a thin dribble of drool on his stubbled chin which pooled into a damp spot on the pillow, his rancid breath sour in her nostrils and thought, as she did every time she saw him, “I fucking hate that bastard.”

He woke with a snort, scratched his crotch and reached for a cigarette, “Hey, Mags, get me a cup of tea.” She rolled her eyes; she couldn’t bear being called that.

His hand clamped on her jaw, a nicotine stained finger thrust into her face, “Don’t think I didn’t see that! It’s lucky for you we’ve got that gig tonight or else you’d get a shiner for that.” She hurried from the lumpy mattress and went to the kitchenette to make his tea before he changed his mind. He never once suspected that she spat in every mug she made for him. A hint of a smile on her lips as she cursed under her breath, “Dai dracu, pulaman.”

He slurped and belched long and loud as he pulled on jeans and rugby shirt, “Get yourself sorted for tonight. There’ll be you and a few of the other girls. I want you clean, shaved and looking good. These men important clients. I want to keep them happy.” Grabbing his keys and coat, “I’ll be back later,” he called as he left the small flat, double locking the door behind him. She raised her middle finger to the door.

Almost eighteen months now. Almost a year and a half since she had answered the advert to be an au pair and took the train to Bucharest for her interview, only to wake up bound and gagged in the back of a van along with five other girls, en route to their new lives.

The first few times he had tried to have sex with her she fought back, but she learned fast that it was wiser to give in. His punishments were vicious; she knew she would never hear properly again in her left ear, or pee without pain. Besides, after you’ve been passed around enough times you learn how to switch off your brain. For some reason, he seemed to favour her over the others and visited her bed more frequently than theirs. The one and only benefit to this was that he frowned upon customers being too rough with her or leaving marks on “what’s his”. Small mercies.

She nibbled on a piece of toast and thought about home, about her Mama and her little sisters. What did they think had happened to her? Did they think she’d ran away? She hoped they knew she would never have done that, no matter how tight things had gotten at home since Tata had passed. She hoped they knew she loved them. She wondered if she would ever see them again.

There were no tears in her eyes; her days of weeping for her past life were long gone. The grey eyes that once sparkled with youth and energy were now hollow, empty of expression, as glasslike as a mannequin’s. She moved differently these days too; her body had been through too much and had suffered at the hands of too many men. She moved slowly, cautiously, like a wounded animal. Nothing about her was the same.

Her eyes caught the clock and she realised she needed to get ready. She had a plan and she needed to get it perfectly right. If she messed this up he would kill her. Of this she had no doubt. She had heard from other girls what he was capable of; how girls who stepped too far out of line were never seen or heard of again. She also had first hand experience of his fists. She had to get this right.


The sound of his key in the door spiked sweat under her arms. Adrenaline coursed through her. Breathing deeply, she tried to slow her heart rate. She must appear normal.

“Mags! C’mere!” he entered carrying three plastic bags of shopping, “Here’s your stuff for the week.”

She had never been outside the flat alone. When he brought her to the parties, he made her wear sunglasses with the lenses totally blacked out and he lead her to the car. Apart from the concrete floors of the hallways, she had no clue what the block of flats looked like, or even where they were. He had nailed chipboard to the windows. To anyone looking, she just looked like another girl in a too-short dress and over sized shades. But his hand firmly gripping her wrists was a constant reminder to behave. Not that anyone in the council block would have cared if she called out. People tended to not look for trouble in such places.

He cast his eyes over her, “You’re not dressed yet,” checked his watch and grinned, “time for a quick one before you get ready then.” He started to open his jeans and pushed her to her knees.

“I’m starving,” he said afterwards, “make me a sandwich and a cuppa. I’m going for a piss.”

She knew she didn’t have long.

He grimaced as she slurped his tea, “What the fuck? Is the milk off?”

“Oh! I forgot the sugar! I’m sorry,” she lied fetching the sugar bowl over and ladling in two large spoonfuls, stirring for a few seconds, “Is the sandwich good?”

“It’ll do,” he drank more tea, “Not the best you’ve made Mags, it’s bitter. You squeezed the teabag too hard, you stupid cunt. Don’t do it again,” but he gulped the rest down noisily and belched, treating her to the aroma of stale cigarette and the pickle he had just eaten, “You go get into that slutty little dress I brought you. Nothing underneath, right?”

She went over to take the skimpy dress from the bag and began to take off her clothes, aware of his eyes on her. He made her skin crawl.

“Show me what’s mine, “ he said and she bent over at the waist and used her fingers to spread her cheeks, revealing herself to him. It made her feel sick.

“Good. Nice and smooth. The clients prefer that.” He yawned, “Fuck! I’m tired.”

“We have some time yet. Do you want to nap?” she asked but heard him snoring before she turned for an answer.

He was slumped over in the chair, his head on the kitchen table. She could hardly believe it… it had worked! The tiny fold of white powder she had gotten from his new driver had done what it was meant to. She winced as she recalled the price she’d had to pay for the drug; it turned out the new driver had quite unique tastes when it came to getting off. She had told him she needed it to get to sleep but once he got what he wanted he didn’t seem too bothered about her motives anyway.

Now she needed to act fast. She had packed what few belongings she had and stashed the bag under the bed earlier. Keeping her eyes peeled on him, she changed back into her jeans and tee shirt and slipped on her trainers.

Where were his keys? He always locked the door when he visited. His jacket was on the back of the chair that he was slouched in. She knew it was risky but she had no choice, she’d come this far. Holding her breath, she reached into the pocket and took out the bunch of keys. They rattled off one another and she froze.

A loud snort from him, her heart hammered in her chest, but he remained passed out.

She began to move towards the door but paused. She needed money. Her eyes returned to his jacket and she once again snuck her small hand into the other pocket and found the leather of his wallet.

No time to check how much was in it; she silently carried her bag to the door and unlocked the door as quietly as she possibly could.

Time slowed down agonizingly. The door clicked open and she looked out, seeing the corridor for the first time, realizing she had no idea which way was out. “Think!” she told herself and tried to remember which way he turned her whenever they had left the flat before. Muscle memory kicked in and she stepped to the left and snuck down the corridor, careful not to make any noise on the concrete underfoot. The urge to run was overwhelming, she felt like she was wading through toffee. She kept expecting to feel his hand the back of her throat, or in her hair dragging her back to her death.

Deciding not to risk the noise of the lift, she pushed the door to the stairwell and finally fled, practically falling over her own feet as she ran down and down until she burst through the last door and out into the warm, low evening sunshine. Squinting and shielding her eyes from the glare, she looked around to get some bearings, spotting a bus stop across the road.

She had no idea where she was; she had no idea where to go.

Suddenly it didn’t matter. She was outside! She was free! She looked in his wallet and saw a large wad of notes. Lucky for her, he mustn’t have gotten around to buying the coke yet. Magda suppressed a slightly hysterical giggle and thought, “Payday!”

Dizzy with adrenaline and emotion she turned and headed for the road just as a double decker pulled up.

Taking a seat near the back, she looked back at the tower of flats that had been her prison, still expecting to see him coming for her. Her hand rested on her tummy, and she made a silent promise to the new life nestled there to remain free.


Copyright, 2016,

All rights reserved.

A Quiet Man

He was a quiet man. He lived a quiet, ordinary life.

Every morning his alarm went off at 7:01 precisely; 701 being his favourite prime number. He slid his feet into the slippers beside the bed and went downstairs to make tea and boil his egg for 5 minutes 47 seconds, 547 being another prime number he enjoyed. His eggcup, mug and spoon were always laid out from the night before.

He ate his breakfast slowly, then washed, dried and put his things away before making his lunch. A ham and tomato sandwich on whole wheat bread, safely stored in a Tupperware box, with a banana on the side.

After his shower he dressed in grey slacks, a white shirt and a blue tie, putting on his brown brogues at the door before leaving for work. As he walked the 20 minutes to his office he carefully avoided the cracks in the pavement. A nod to the girls on reception as he passed by en route to the lift to arrive at his desk at 8:09, where he sat and began to check his emails and see what the day held ahead of him.

Colleagues passed his desk during the day. He always glanced up and offered a smile but never initiated conversation. Work was work, not a party. He ate his sandwich at his desk, reading the online newspaper. He watched the clock on his screen and after exactly 29 minutes he closed the Internet and returned to his tasks. He took a tea break from 3:17 to 3:31 and shut down his computer everyday at 5:41.

He stopped in to buy supplies for dinner on his way home; M&S or Waitrose. Mondays were pork chops, Tuesdays – fish, Wednesdays – chicken, Thursdays – leftover chicken. On Fridays he had steak.

His evening routine never wavered. He removed his shoes at the door, washed his hands and cooked his evening meal, listening to the radio as he worked. Once dinner was finished and tidied away he watched the documentaries he had recorded during the day, before brushing his teeth and going to bed at 9:07. At 9:53 he put down his book and turned his light off.

On Saturdays he volunteered at the local hospice, where he made and served tea, read and chatted to the patients. Always modest about offering his time, he dismissed any praise directed towards him with, “It’s nothing really, just a small piece of my week. I’m happy to be of use.”

The staff chatted about him during their breaks:

“Isn’t Terence a sweet man? So quiet and unassuming”.

“He is. A diamond that man.”

“Do you know anything about him?”

“Not at thing! He keeps himself to himself. But you have to respect that.”

“Bless him.”

 They, of course, were unaware of his secret visits to the mortuary.

He had noticed it was usually quiet and unoccupied during the serving of the evening meal and had made a habit of quietly disappearing once his serving duties were taken care of.

His skin prickled at the coolness of the air there every time.

He locked the door before opening one of the compartments and sliding out the slab. A frisson of excitement in that moment where his eyes slid over the shape beneath the sheet, before he lifted it and saw the face below, drained of colour and life.

He only wanted the women, never the men.

He loved to look at their pallid, waxy skin. Some of them tragically young, torn from life too early; others old, their age-spotted skin wrinkled and sagging. He reached out and touched their breasts, finding them cold and firm. He stroked their stomachs, hips and thighs, his erection growing and straining against his Y fronts. He spat on his fingers and sighed as he pushed them inside the women, feeling their icy tightness grip him. He wished they could open their eyes and look at him as he explored them. He edged towards orgasm but always stopped before he spoiled his underwear. He hated mess. Removing his fingers, he sniffed them, wiped them on the sheet and returned the woman to her resting place. He left the mortuary carefully, glancing left and right to ensure no one was around to see him.

He rejoined the patients and staff to bid them good night for another week, thinking of how he would relive his illicit thrill once he got home and masturbated in the shower. His weekend treat that made the week bearable.

On Sundays he visited his mother. He always brought her pink roses and cut her grass. On the way home from the graveyard he would buy fish and chips for supper.

He did enjoy routine.

Copyright, 2016,

All rights reserved.


“Take a breath…” she whispered to herself, trying to slow her heart rate before she entered the bar.

The lights were low. She struggled to adjust her sight, but after a few minutes she spied him chatting to the bartender, nursing a scotch. She took a stool two spaces down from him and ordered, “I’ll have what he’s having,” nodding towards her prey.

He glanced over at her, “You have good taste. It’s on me,” then to the bar man, “I’ll have another too.”

“Thank you, that’s very generous. I’m Jules,” she extended her hand and smiled at him.

“Mac.” His hand swallowed hers in a tight grip, “Are you waiting on someone?”

“Nope, all on my lonesome tonight I’m afraid.”

“You needn’t be. I’m not going anywhere.”

She felt her heart race as she slid over onto the stool next to him. She was in…


She giggled as she unlocked her front door. They spilled in drunkenly; he stumbled and tripped, landing hard on her tiled hallway.

“Fuck, I must have had more than I realised,” he sighed as she helped him to his feet.

“Come on, you need to lie down,” she pulled him upstairs and into her bedroom.

He leered at her, “You taking me to bed then are you?” and reached for her. She deftly sidestepped him and pushed him down on the bed.

“Come on, you know you want to,” he groaned, hands in the air trying to grab her again.

“Steady, boy!”

“I’m not a b…” his world faded to grey.


She waited.

After undressing him and tightly securing his wrists and ankles to the bed frame with rope, she made coffee as he snored and revised her plan. She had been careful to make him think she was matching him drink for drink, adding an extra shot of scotch from her bag to his glass whenever he went to the gents. Now she was ready for the next stage.

“What the…!” he gasped as the ice cold water hit his face, rudely pulling him back to consciousness.

He tried to sit up.

“What the fuck?” his eyes widened as it dawned on him that he was completely restrained, “What’s happening?”

A slow smile spread across her face, “We are going to play a game… I’m in charge.”

She bent over and picked up the knife from the under the bed, relishing the flash of fear in his eyes.

“Untie me. Now!” he strained against the black rope that bound him.

“Oh I don’t think that’s going to happen, Mac…” she trailed the tip of the blade up along his calf, continuing to his inner thigh and pausing just before it touched his balls, “Just think of all the things I could do to you now,” she whispered, pressing the tip into his skin.

“Jesus! Are you fucking mad?” he gasped, trying but failing to twist his body away.

“Do you think it’s wise to be so rude to me right now?” she swiftly flicked the knife up and pressed it against his throat, “Well?”

She watched his Adam’s apple as he swallowed hard. She saw beads of sweat break out on his forehead and smiled, “You really don’t remember me do you?”

He frowned, a confused expression washed over his face. She felt the rage building inside her.

“Did you honestly think a fit young woman like me would pick up an old man like you in a bar? Really? Can you be that egotistic?” her voice trembled as she struggled to control her anger, “Look at yourself! How old are you now? 60?” She pointed the blade at his crotch, “I see that you dye your hair these days, but not down here… Aw, look at how tiny your pathetic cock is?”

Once again she pressed the knife onto his skin, buried the tip in his grey bush. He whimpered, “Please, I don’t know what you want from me…”

She took a breath, striving to stop herself from piercing his skin with the knife.

“What I want? Ha! What I want is to make you feel as scared and powerless as you made me feel… is anything coming back to you yet… well, Sir, or should I say Mr. MacDonald?”

His face drained completely of blood. She watched the slow dawning of recognition cross his face, followed by sheer panic.

“Jules… Julianne? Is it you?” his voice so low she almost couldn’t hear him.


She closed her eyes.

Nausea swept over her as she was transported her back to the school art room, empty but for the two of them. He had asked her to stay back to help him tidy the supplies away. As she gathered pastels and charcoal she heard the distinct click of the door locking and turned to see him walking towards her.

“We are going to play a game Julianne,” he had said, pushing her down to the floor, his hand around her throat, “Do. Not. Make. A. Sound.”


Opening her eyes she replied to him, her voice ice cold, “You told me to not make a sound but you can scream all you like. My neighbours are out of town and no-one ever comes by this way,” she began to cut into the skin on his chest, drawing thin rivulets of blood, “No-one will hear you.”

He screamed, a high-pitched wail as she cut deeper, dragging the dagger further down his body.


Copyright, 2016,

All rights reserved.

Moral Mondays – Blood Brothers

“She never listened a damn day in her life. Was always too ready to put in her two cents worth,” he said wiping the blood from his hands on a greasy towel.

“Well, I think we taught her good, don’t you?”

They looked down on her broken body, her lined faced obliterated by their years of pent up fury, finally released upon her.

“Yep. Won’t be hearing anymore of her whiny ass voice.”

Cracking open another beer, he salutes his brother, “Here’s to Mom.”

“To Mom…”



Copyright, 2016,

All rights reserved.

The Collector

Everyday he takes his seat in Liverpool Street Station, on the bench facing the stairs, large Costa coffee in hand, a newspaper he never reads tucked under his arm. No one notices him, the beige man in the M&S clothes. He fades into his surroundings.

He watches them.

The City boys in their slick suits and cufflinks, the students in jeans and hoodies, the hipsters with their ridiculous beards and porkpie hats, the tourists, made obvious by their bum-bags, cameras and dazed expressions.

They are not the reason he is there.

He is there to watch the women come and go. The stressed Mums with howling toddlers, the old ladies, bent over with age and arthritis, the giggling school girls in their uniforms.

He smiles, remembering his past trophies…

The short Indian lady with a long, sleek braid that fell to the small of her back, glossy black in beautiful contrast to the ivory sari she wore. The tall platinum blonde in ripped leggings and DMs, with her shaved sides and a mowhawk that spilled down to her shoulder blades. The coffee coloured girl with a magnificent wild bush of black curls. The petite twenty-something with longs soft waves of honey blonde layers that bounced when she walked. They were all beautiful in their own way, each a unique specimen of feminine splendor.

He sees her.

Her slim elegant legs carrying her down the steps, dressed as always in a tailored suit. She passes him on her way to the platform, never spotting him stand and follow her. As they walk he catches the faint trace of her perfume on the air. He watches the sunlight reflect off the soft loose waves that cover her back. Copper highlights spark from her deep dark red mane. He longs to reach out and caress it. But not yet.

She doesn’t notice him stand behind her on the crowded train. Her eyes scan the smart phone in her hand, thumb flicking through emails, a tiny crease between her fair brows. As she reads, a sudden jolt from the tracks sends her body pressing back against his chest. He breathes in the scent from her hair, a light fruity fragrance. Soon he would change that to the coconut he preferred. All his girls’ hair smelled of coconut.

She glances back over her shoulder at him, smiling and murmuring an apology for invading his space. She has no idea. No idea that he has been watching her for days. No idea that he knows her every movement, her every routine, from when she leaves her house in the mornings, to her commute to reach her office and then her return home in the evenings.

FullSizeRenderShe has no idea that this is her last day. No idea that tonight he will be waiting for her in her house, his sharp blade in hand, ready to take that glowing crown of red glory from her to add to his collection.

So he smiles back at her, reassuringly and watches her return to her emails, the zesty scent of her hair still lingering in his nostrils. Soon to be coconut.




Read more dark tales here!

Thanks to @cavey2014 for his time!

Copyright, 2016,

All rights reserved.