Story - The Birthday Party - WARNING sexual content.

The Birthday Party

Around nine the fresh scent of school girl flesh passes him by on course for the living room. Coats are removed and he smells the slightly acrid scent of their armpits. Licking his lips in anticipation, he indicates the cabinet in response to their request for a drink. Glass chinks and red mouths are wetted with rum, then brandy. The fire has been lit and its red orange warmth combines with their internal glow, causing jumpers to be raised over upright breasts, resulting in glimpses of bare flesh as shirts come adrift.

One of the girls in particular attracts him. In his mind he feels the sensation of her soft, yet taut skin upon his fingertips. He refills her glass, she swallows rapidly and the action of her upturned throat reminds him of the thrust of intercourse. She laughs, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, holding her glass out for still more, then raises it for the toast - Happy Sixteenth – and downs the fluid in one. A smile flirts with her liquored mouth and her body loosens. She cascades down onto the sofa, her skirt rising to reveal smoothly coated thighs, hair flooding backwards from a flushed face. She giggles uncontrollably. A delicious sensation floods him, his penis engorges and his balls tighten. He turns to ascertain the response of the other two, but they are caressing the bottles, feeling the rounded bodies and slim necks, comparing and contrasting.

His body craves the adrenaline rush of tobacco, he feels it tingle from the nerves in his mouth through his torso into his extremities. Leaving the house as instructed, he stands in the raw air and lights up. This rough warmth exaggerates the outer chill as the wind stirs the thin shirt covering his body. The dull sexual ache engaged by the girls presence threatens to consume him. He tries to think rationally, but does not understand the concept and so resorts to exploring the physical sensation of standing in the bitter cold, observing the clear winter sky with its pale low sun. Becoming calm, he returns inside.

The girl he left displayed on the sofa rises to greet him, a tumbler of brandy slops its contents over her fingers and down her hand, staining the white cuff of her blouse. He imagines licking and sucking the liquid from her skin and trembles. A warm arm is slung around his cold neck and, as she presses her body against him, he feels her nipples tighten in response to the winter chill that has pervaded the heated atmosphere in his wake. As he kisses her mouth, probing its moist crevices with his tongue, he coolly regards the others, who shrug nonchalantly and make as if to leave. As they gather their bags, the back gate clunks and he senses an adult presence. Quickly he herds the girls upstairs into his bedroom. A stale male odour greets them as a woman calls from below. The sense of fear thrills him; excitedly he begins to run down, then halts. Enclosed by the stairwell, he allows fear to flood his being, channelling his excitement into a frightened plea for assistance. Feeling prepared he resumes his rapid descent.

Taking in the discarded glasses, open bottles and flattened cushions, the woman assesses then hardens. Her command brings two of the girls down. They begin tentatively, apprehension fashions their features causing their mouths to open as if forced by their tongues, which press firmly against their teeth. He watches them, finds their fear arousing and asks sternly why they have left the other girl in his room. His change of tone confuses them. They retreat, re-appearing with the drunken girl suspended around their shoulders. He notices her stained cuff is pulled back and winter sunlight reflects the golden down that covers her fair skin. His stomach contracts as he imagines the sensation of those soft, fine hairs on his lips. Her face flops forward, she tries to negotiate the steps which elude her, so she crumples heavily downwards. The anticipation of her landing fuels his desire. Viewing her curved and twisted body he collects himself to portray concern, yet probes the warm bruised flesh with hard fingers, causing her to arch her pelvis and cry out. Collective cries of – Careful! – are dimly heard as his brutal enjoyment threatens to overwhelm him.

The woman takes command. She wishes to call a doctor, but this results in panic stricken faces. With misgivings she relents and the two girls struggle out with their burden. The clock points to five past ten. Turning to the boy, she asks for an explanation, but he is aware that despite her authorial stance, her adult role in this household is that of cleaner, not parent. He pleads with boyish irresponsibility – It wasn’t my fault, they came in, they helped themselves, I’m off school sick, I’m sorry – and she relents, placing the freshly signed birthday card on the kitchen worktop. While he bathes and indulges his sexuality in remembrance, she cleans the house beyond the closed door then leaves.

Later, he lays wrapped up on the sofa, watching a video whilst the fire burns brightly. There is a harsh sounding knock at the door. He imagines a hard fist on harder wood and takes stock of his situation. Who might it be? He is partially dressed, vulnerable. He had not heard the gate above the noise of the video and feels unprepared. The knock is repeated, harder still and too late he remembers that the door is on its latch. A man of similar age to his father enters the room as he is rising off the sofa, pulling the cover defensively around his boyish frame. Before he has chance to speak the man appears to fly towards him and wrenches the cover aside. Feeling naked he stands fearfully, breathing shallowly, watching unspoken rage work the man’s mouth. He recognises the drunken girl’s father. Please don’t hurt me – he says. Abruptly the man’s head butts his stomach hard. Pain suffuses his body, it acknowledges this paternal rage which radiates out like the fires warmth to fill the room. As he gasps the father stands before him, fist clenched, tears running from his eyes. You bastard, you bastard, you bastard, the man repeats brokenly. This litany becomes synchronised with movement. He feels the pain of righteous fists in his face and chest. Whilst welcoming the numbness that follows, he protests – It’s not my fault; this is just how I am. It’s not my fault. A fist makes contact with his nose and he hears the bone snap. The noise is so vast it nearly overwhelms the man’s response to his protestations of innocence. Suddenly the arms with their bloody fists cease their relentless pounding. But she’s dead – the father repeats hollowly and exits.

In the bathroom he wipes the blood from his face and tenderly feels his nose, examining it in the mirror. He imagines what happened, sees her leaving the house, suspended over the two girls shoulders. They cannot carry her far, so they deposit her in the park then make their hasty way to school in the hope they haven’t been missed. Unable to support herself, the drunken girl collapses, and seemingly falls asleep. He imagines her skirt riding high in the cold wind. From the warm security of its skirted waistband, her blouse once again becomes adrift. The chill air caresses the strip of naked flesh and pierces the thin material of her clothing causing her to shiver. He breathes harder as his mind realises her taut, raised nipples, causing his bruised stomach and chest to protest. He feels the sour bile rise, feels its solidity pressing upward to fill her throat, then her nostrils. He sees it trickle gently from her pale, soft lips to lay on winter’s ice scorched grass. Suddenly, he vomits. His muscles sharply contract as the vile liquid ejaculates through his mouth. He winces at the pain, then is strangely satisfied.