Seduce Me

By: Georgia Le Carre

Blake Law Barrington

I rub my hand down my cheeks and chin, and return the shaver to its holder. In the mirror there is nothing but me. The way I came into this world. Naked. For an instant I frown at myself. Last night I dreamed again. Of that time when my hands were small and covered in blood. I try to recall the details, but the dream is gone.

No, not gone. Of course not. It never goes. It hides inside a faint net of tension.

I turn away from my reflection and that feeling that something inside is broken and awkward, and walk into the shower. I close the door and, standing out of the trajectory of the spray, turn the knob. It comes powerfully alive. I let the water heat up before I step into the hot cascade. It sluices over me. The water is sensuous and forgiving.

I close my eyes and the water washes away my sins.

There is a small knock on the door.

I turn around and open the door. For a moment we simply look at each other. Her hair is loose about her shoulders and tousled. There are faint lines on her upper arms made by the creases in the sheets. Otherwise she is perfect. She steps inside and I open my arms to envelop her.

God, I love this woman.

She pours liquid soap into the palm of her hand and smears the soap across her breasts.

‘You’re asking for it,’ I tell her.

‘Since the day I met you,’ she says softly.

I smile.

She smiles back. In the clouds of steam around us, her eyes are dark. They move slowly down my body and come to rest on my cock. It is hard and ready for her.

I spin her around. She lands neatly on the frosted glass, on her hands and elbows. Her cheek presses into the glass and her hips tilt up to receive me. I plunge into her. She gasps. I love that involuntary sound. I always ram her harder than necessary just to hear that sound. The sound is the beginning and the end of my possession of her. That’s my sound. I own it. The day she stops making that sound something inside me will die.

Our wet bodies make aggressive slapping sounds as I f**k her hard and fast. The need to go deeper and deeper into her makes me lift her clean off the floor. I travel faster and faster into her silky tightness until I explode deep inside her.

When I turn her around we stare at each other, both of us panting hard. Then I get to my haunches and pulling apart her pus**sy lips suck her clit quite cruelly while I watch her writhing and moaning helplessly. I’m good at this and she comes quickly with a high-pitched cry. I stand and guide her back into the middle of the water.

As the water pours over us I kiss her. Her mouth is sweet and warm. For a while I lose myself in the sweetness of that kiss. Then she is moving away. I grab her hand.

‘He has great timing that son of yours,’ she says with a laugh, and opening the door slips out. I listen, but don’t hear anything other than the towel being pulled off the rail, and her footfalls as she leaves the bathroom.

A mother’s ears are special.

I turn off the tap and reach for a towel. I dry myself briskly and pad over to the adjoining room. Sometimes, Lana will bring Sorab into the dressing room while I dress. That day she doesn’t. My clothes are already laid out and a pair of socks lovingly hung on the radiator. They are warm enough to heat even a heart as frozen as mine. I pull them on quickly.

I have an early appointment with India Jane, the wedding organizer. I told Lana that I didn’t want her to get involved in the planning for the wedding because I didn’t want her to have the crazy stress that brides go through, but that is only partly true. The real truth is I want it to be the kind of wedding that Lana would never organize for herself, not only because she doesn’t know how to—her upbringing means she cannot even begin to comprehend the kind of ostentatious extravagance I have in mind—but also because one needs to be super spoilt to want something like that for oneself. And Lana simply isn’t.

Unknown to her, her wedding is going to be the biggest society event of the year. Invitations are going to be rare and precious. Not because I want it—I’d marry Lana in a bathtub tomorrow, and not give a shit—but because I know the knives are out for her. Anything less than a massive wedding will diminish her in their eyes. And she doesn’t need that. Those patronizing harpies could oppress you in their sleep. But I’ll get every one of those stuck-up bitches to accept her as their equal if it is the last fucking thing I do.

And to that effect even my mother is not being invited.

Yeah, she is pissed off, but she’ll get over it. It may sound drastic to you, but you don’t know my mother. She has the ability to ruin the entire wedding with one carefully chosen word! She can throw you a line and a hand grenade at the same time. I don’t want to be decoding the nuances of her barbs.

Besides, there is no real point to inviting her: I already know exactly what her relationship with Lana is going to be like. I imagine her well-groomed hands folded in her lap, her face bathed in a wry smile as she nimbly laces Lana into a narrow relationship of superior and inferior. And from that submissive position Lana will never again be allowed to move away.

So: she’s not coming. And for that matter neither is Marcus. Their absence more than anything else will demonstrate to the rest of them that if they are planning on taking sides or sucking up to anyone it had better be to Lana.

I shrug on my jacket.

Here’s the deal:

I know Lana wants me to give you my version of the events, but honestly, do you really want to hear about a wedding from a man’s point of view? Weddings are for girls. The minute India Jane starts moving her jaw from her usual English expression of subdued agony and starts discussing matching boutonnières my eyes start glazing over.

The next best person would be Billie, but what she thinks of weddings and the people who indulge in them doesn’t bear repeating, so, we are left with the other bridesmaid, Julie Sugar. I have only seen her once, very briefly, so I can’t say I know her, but Lana grew up with and speaks very highly of her, and I trust Lana’s instincts, so I’m going to leave it with her.

I understand that you don’t know her, but you’ve bought the ticket for the show and you might as well go in with an open mind. You never know—you might enjoy it.

Master Sorab Barrington requests the pleasure of your company

at the wedding and reception of his parents

Lana Bloom


Blake Law Barrington

at the Old Church, Woburn, Bedfordshire on Sunday 18th May 2014 at 2.00 p.m.

followed by a reception at Wardown Towers.


Julie Sugar

Yes, it is true: I hate Lana Bloom.

But it is also true that I agreed to be her bridesmaid.

The why of why I agreed to play bridesmaid is startlingly simple—she has something I want. The why of why I hate her is not too complicated either. It began as envy, many years ago. You see, she was everything I was not and wanted to be.

As a child her perfection and beauty had to be seen to be believed—straight black hair and the biggest, most innocent blue eyes you ever saw, while I was an ugly, ungainly thing topped with a bizarre mop of curls. She was perfectly formed and I was… Well, my nickname used to be Fatty, and when they were being kind, Fatso.

I had no drama. Drama followed her like a well-trained pet. Her mother was always dying, but never did. Her father went to work one day and never came back. A pedophile tried to snatch her. Drama, drama, drama. It was never-ending.

Oh, and I should add, Billie Black, the coolest girl in school and the one person I was dying to befriend, became her best friend. But, I guess, my real hatred for her began when—

‘Julie,’ my mother bellows from downstairs.

‘What?’ I yell back.

‘I got you a donut.’

‘I’ll come and get it,’ I shout, quickly scampering off my bed and landing on the floor with a soft thud. I hear her heavy tread pass into the living room. I unlock my door, run down the stairs and stand at the foot of them. From this vantage point I have a view of the kitchen and the living room.

On the kitchen table I can see the thin, white paper bag with the donut in it. In the living room I see a woman. A huge woman. The last time she weighed herself she was nearing four hundred pounds. That was nearly a year ago.

She looks like a mountain of lard held together by a thin layer of human skin, pasty white and stretched so tight you can see all her veins, green and working themselves to death to service the large needs of her body. She collapses backwards into the sofa. The springs are gone but three cushions squash obediently into the shape of her massive arse.

Under her tent-like, gray T-shirt she wears no bra, and two broad flattened pieces of flesh lay over her stomach. Where the shapeless T-shirt ends her meaty elbows begin. They bloom into club like hands that clumsily fan out into fat red sausage-like fingers. The sausages are clutching a greasy paper bag that she brings up to her chest. Her hands do not reach higher. Her neck bends and she buries her face in the first Jamaican pattie of the three she will have bought: they supersize them especially for her at the bakery down the road.

She is my mother.

She lifts her head—her lips are covered with a coating of greasy brown gravy and her mouth is so full, her cheeks bulge. She chews exactly three times and swallows. ‘It’s in the kitchen,’ she says.

‘Yeah, I see it. Thanks,’ I say, but do not move.

She nods, bites off another chunk of pastry and returns her gaze to the TV screen. Next, she will reach for the two liter bottle of Coke and guzzle from it. She goes through a bottle a day. Not taking her eyes off the TV she stretches for the bottle.

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