The Beast Read Free

the evenings.
Mostly Donald Duck, the small pocket books, they're still his favourites. He
read a bit of Lord of the Rings once, but it's the pocket Donald Ducks
he likes best. She feels sure that's what Marwin is doing.
        
        
        Horrid
crappy cap-man. Horrid crappy cap-man. Horrid crappy cap-man.
        She
mustn't speak to men like him. Mum and Dad keep nagging about it, go on and on
at her and she swears she never speaks to them. And she doesn't. Or anyway,
only to tell them off. Ida doesn't dare do that. But she dares. Mum and Dad
will be furious if they hear that she's talked to one of them. She doesn't want
them to hear that, they mustn't be angry with her.
        Number
33 is best. That's where he nicked the bike. And where he slept.
        They've
stopped screaming. The fat little blonde whore is crying, red-eyed, snot
running from her nose. The dark slag looks obstinate, staring at him,
challenging him, hating. He ties their hands to one of the pipes running along
the cement-grey wall. It's hot, must be a hot water pipe. It will burn their
arms. They both kick, trying to hit him. Every time, he kicks them back. They
get the message soon enough and don't try kicking any more.
        They're
sitting still now. Whores should sit still. Whores wait for what's coming to
them. He calls the shots. He takes his clothes off. T-shirt, jeans, underpants,
shoes, socks. In that order. He undresses in front of them. If they don't look
at him, he kicks them until they do. Whores should look. He stands naked in
front of them. He's handsome. He knows that he's handsome. Trained body.
Muscular legs. Firm buttocks. No belly. Handsome.
        'What
do you think?'
        The
dark slag is crying now.
        'Horrid
horrid cap-man.'
        She's
crying, she took her time, but she's just like all the whores.
        'What
do you think? Handsome or what?'
        'Horrid
horrid cap-man. I want to go home.'
        His
cock is hard. He calls the shots. He comes up close, pushes his penis at their
faces.
        'Looks
good, eh?'
        He
shouldn't have wanked. He did it twice this morning. He can only manage two
more times, probably. He does it in front of them, his breathing quickens. He
kicks the fat blonde when she looks away for a moment, empties himself in their
faces, on their hair, it gets messy when they shake their heads.
        They're
crying. Whores always cry, all the fucking time.
        He
undresses them. Their tops have to be cut first, now that their hands are tied
to the hot pipe. They're younger than he'd thought, no sign of tits.
        He
pulls everything off except their shoes. Not the shoes. Not yet. The fat blonde
slag has got pink shoes, shiny, like patent leather. The brunette is wearing
white trainers, like for playing tennis in.
        He
bends over the fat blonde whore. He kisses her pink shoes on top, near the
toes. He licks both of them, starting at the toe, all along the shoe, the heel
too. He takes them off. Her little whore's feet are gorgeous. He lifts one of
her feet, she almost tips over backwards. He licks her ankle, her toes, sucks a
little on each one. He glances up at her face, she's crying quietly.
        He
feels an urgent desire.
        
     
        She
always wakes when the newspaper arrives. Every single morning. It falls on the wooden
floor with a sodding awful thump. Then there're two more thumps, next door, and
then the next one along. She has tried to catch him, tell him to stop, but has
been too late every time. She caught sight of his back quite a few times. He's
young, with his hair in a ponytail. If she gets hold of him she'll explain how
people feel at five o'clock on Sunday mornings.
        She
can't go back to sleep now. She twists and turns, she's sweating. Must go back
to sleep, should sleep, but no, it can't be done. She never used to have this
problem, it's different now, her thoughts attack her at once and by six o'clock
she's