Widdershins was her Area Manager. She didn’t see him every day but, when she did, her skin crawled. The man was such a creep. There was something about him, something she couldn’t put her finger on, something off. One of the canteen girls said, she wasn’t saying he was a paedophile or anything – but, if it turned out that he was a paedophile, you wouldn’t be surprised, would you?
He had a manner about him, he both skulked and preened, creeping stealthily about the store, trying to catch you out – but when you saw him, when he saw that you’d seen him, a singular breath served to inflate him to five or ten times his original size and height and weight. Once spotted, Widdershins became immense, would sidle, crab-like, toward you, whereupon he would launch in with a garbled story (that the listener suspected had been prepared long in advance, had been recounted and repeated as Widdershins did his rounds, driving from this store to that store, checking that everything was as it should be) – the upshot of which, reading between the lines, was that Widdershins was LIKE YOU, was that Widdershins SHARED YOUR HOPES AND DREAMS, was that Widdershins was HUMAN and FRAIL, was that Widdershins CARED.
But it didn’t convince. Widdershins was not like anyone she’d ever met before – which could be a good thing but wasn’t in the case of Widdershins. He was shabby and disreputable, despite the fact that (they’d learned on the retail grapevine) he wore nice suits and had a nice house in Cheshire that he shared with his nice wife – who was a barrister, one of the good ones, counted Cherie Blair among her colleagues – and their three children. Nobody liked him – that much everyone agreed upon – but nobody was able to quite say why.
Debs was a strange one herself, though. The way everyone flinched and gossiped. She wanted to provoke them. So, despite the fact that her stomach knotted in his presence (knotted and re-knotted, twisted, ducked, dived and plunged), she forced herself into situations where they had to interact. At first, it was innocent enough. She just wanted to make the girls laugh. But then she wanted more than laughter. Tilting her head, laughing at some slippery comment typical of Widdershins, the girls stopped chuckling. The girls started nudging one another. One or two of the older girls – the girls who had long since ceased to be women, never mind girls, the crones – didn’t like it and told her so. Steer clear of that one, they told her in pointed asides. That Widdershins won’t do you no good. Debs didn’t care. She wasn’t interested in good or in bad. Debs was a kid. Debs just wanted to stir things up. Work was boring. She liked being the centre of attention, even if it came about as a result of orbiting the flabby, creaking moon that was Widdershins.
Half of what happened next was a dare (they dared her!) and half of what happened was common curiosity (what would happen if?). She had half a plan and half a daydream. Idle thoughts had recurred as she made her way to and from work on her bicycle each morning and afternoon. Half of this and half of that, circling about her like wood smoke. For half a week she wondered whether it would be today, whatever it would be – today? today? today? For half a week, there was no sign of Widdershins at all. When he did eventually show – it was a Wednesday lunchtime, they were run off their feet – she didn’t have the chance to speak. Her resolve almost gave. He was a repugnant creature. Make no mistake about that. Clammy skinned, bathed in a repugnant cloud of sweat and – was it piss? Her horror at the sight of him raised goose pimples on her arms and legs. But that wasn’t all. The horror served as a catalyst – if she could do this, she could do anything…
A full three weeks elapsed before she spotted a window of opportunity. The back warehouse was clear. The door to the freezer was open. She touched his elbow, said Mr Widdershins, sir? Could I show you something? Led him slowly, cautiously (on his part) into the depths of the freezer (which was colder than cold, colder than you could ever imagine) where she asked, gently, a thumb on the hem of her blue, pleated skirt, if he’d ever seen knickers (she curtsied as she raised the hem, looked up at him with the widest of eyes) as pretty as this? Widdershins stuttered and spluttered. She stood there, the hem of her skirt held like a tiny newspaper, balanced on the heel of her right foot, turning slowly, an inch to the right and an inch to the left. There was a beautiful moment when all she knew was the movement, the world precariously balanced, just so. And then she was pile-driven, rugby tackled back into a half-filled pallet of frozen peas, Widdershins slobbering at her neck, dribbling (she could feel the warmth of his spit in the cold as clearly as if he’d pissed on her), pawing at her tits and fanny like they belonged to him. She squeezed him, once, briskly and then, somehow or other, managed to slip out from underneath his enormous, bloating tumescence.
And that was how it started. And for several weeks, it was fun, in a perverse sort of way. She knew what she was doing to him. Knew she had him balanced upon the tip of her finger. Every day for a week, she allowed Widdershins a moment (he wanted to see her bra – she slowly unbuttoned her white blouse and showed him, noted his appreciation of the way in which she filled the dark blue Hello Kitty cups, saw his eye linger over the freckle on her left tit), drawing him in, repelled by his fetid glance but aroused by her own awful artfulness. One day she was hot, said she wanted him, asked if he knew a place they could go; one day she was cold, didn’t speak, wouldn’t agree to leave the shop floor, told him to leave her alone and stop bothering her or – (there was nothing after ‘or’ but the threat, the implied disgrace, was enough to send him scurrying off in search of her manager, doling out rebukes about the presentation of this or that promotion). Debs was clever. Whenever she blew cold, she made sure to make it up, offering him a glimpse of her belly button (would you like to lick me here?), letting him slip his middle finger quickly in and out of her (saying is my tuppence wet? that’s all for you, Mr Widdershins, sir, all for you), stroking his cock (who she called Mr Porky) through his trousers until he came with a gust and a gasp and rusty rasp.
But, of course, it couldn’t last. Widdershins continued to push and probe, continued to see what he could get away with – and Debs grew crueller, caring less and less what he thought of her but still, occasionally responding with heat to his repeated entreaties. But she was appalled by herself, eventually, felt backed into a corner, worried about what she was getting herself into (what she had already got herself into). Sucking his cock was the final straw. They’d been at it, fucking about, doing whatever it was they were doing, for weeks, a couple of months almost, before Widdershins risked unsheathing his cock and when he did she nearly gagged. Her eyes flicked from his groin to his face in search of some kind of explanation. Widdershins said eczema but Debs wasn’t having that. The fucking thing looked like it was suffering from third degree burns. Or leprosy. Perhaps it was. She said, you look like you’ve been wanking yourself half to death. Widdershins leered, the way he always did at her sex talk, said Maybe I have with his teeth nervously nibbling at his bottom lip.
And just like that Debs fell to her knees and took the offending article into her mouth. She took Widdershins cock in her mouth and she thought, this joke isn’t funny any more. She took Widdershins cock in her mouth and she thought, this will be the last time. She took Widdershins cock in her mouth and she closed her eyes and she thought:
Sucking a cock for any reason other than love was no reason at all.