Chapter 7: We Wrestle Not Against Cock and Cunt

“Why are we doing this, Harriet?” Michael looked sullen and disgruntled, as they climbed a pee-stained outside staircase leading to a grimy concrete balcony which ran along the front of the third floor of a small grey block of council flats in East London.

Harriet exhaled a plume of smoke, which burgeoned and hung like a thick cloud in the damp winter air. “Because we’ve been fucking each other for three months now, and it’s time we stopped sneaking around behind our parents’ backs. I mean, fucking out in the park every Sunday after church was fine in September – but not in this kind of weather.” She took another drag of her cigarette, letting this lungful out in a series of puffs as she continued to speak: “It’s all right for you: you can keep all your clothes on and just take your dick out to fuck me. But if you want to see my tits and ass, then I want to fuck somewhere which is not totally fucking freezing! And the public fuck-shelters are so grim. Besides, we live in Enlightened times now: we should be able to fuck where we want, when we want. And we agreed th–”

“All right, all right,” grumbled Michael. “But can’t we just go to your place instead? It sounds like your parents are a lot more reasonable, and a lot more welcoming, than my mum. There’s a reason my dad walked out on her. She’s going to be awful to you, you know, I mean, she hates me, and ... well, we’re here...” He stopped, deflated, outside a peeling green door which must once have had the number “69” in plastic adhesive letters on it – though the “9” had long since fallen half off, leaving a paintless outline, so that it looked to the untrained eye as if the number on the door was “666”.

Harriet took one last drag of her cigarette, admiring the misshapen yellow butt, the filter almost brown from the many damp lungfuls of tar she had been inhaling through it, before flicking it casually over the parapet into the misty afternoon air. Despite Michael’s protestations, she was somewhat sceptical of the manner in which he described his mother. Her naïveté proceeded, perhaps, from her protective upbringing, and from being such a well-balanced young lady herself, with parents who pleasured each other, kept nothing from each other or their daughter, and accepted – nay, honoured – Harriet as she was: a kind, conscientious, courteous, hard-working sixth-form fetish fuckslut. If Harriet had ever encountered dysfunctional parenting in her life, she might have recognised in Michael the signs of family-induced low self-esteem. But as it was, she saw no reason why both her parents and Michael’s single mum should not be delighted that she and Michael had been contentedly boning each other for over three months now, and eager to meet their respective children’s fuckbuddies. Harriet and Michael had been continuing to meet each Sunday, to pray and to fuck. Whilst the weather was warm, the park was their favoured after-church fucking ground, but, if Harriet were being completely honest, she would have admitted that it wasn’t just the logistics which led her to insist that they both should introduce each other to their respective parents: she felt, instinctively, that there was something special in their relationship. It wasn’t just that she liked fucking Michael, liked smoking for him, and liked doing both together: she also liked hanging out with him, going to All Cunts youth events, chatting, joking, reading the Bible and praying together, and generally chilling out. She had no intention of dumping him, despite her occasionally teasing him to the contrary – and she doubted very much that he was losing interest in her. Being a well brought up teenage whore, she felt it was only right that their parents should welcome their fuckship into their homes.

Wearily, Michael opened the green front door and called ahead into the flat, “M’ cock, Mum, I’m home – and I’ve brought Harriet with me.”

Fuck me, baby, that feels so good; I love feeling that dick in my cunt, was the only response from within the flat – and it was very loud indeed. Harriet raised her eyebrows quizzically, before the soundtrack continued: Oh yeah, baby, ram that big black cock deep in my cunt-hole, that’s so fucking good, baby... Michael’s mother, a pale, corpulent woman with straggly once-blonde hair, multiple chins, and huge drooping breasts, sat naked on a dusty sagging sofa in the living room, watching television. Dark frayed curtains were half-drawn over the metal-framed windows, and she was surrounded by piles of damp cardboard boxes full of unidentifiable matter, wreathed in flies. The volume on her screen, an old 2030s television which looked as if it was about to fall off the wall, was turned up full, making the entire flat, small as it was, echo with the sound of moaning, squealing, and dirty talk, over a closeup of a big black cock doggy-fucking a white girl’s tight hairless cunt. Michael’s mother’s flabby thighs were spread wide, her pussy – as slack and unkempt as the pornstar’s on the screen was tight and perfectly coiffed – speared by a huge pink dildo which she gripped with her right hand. Her left hand was alternating between dipping deep into a large bag of Cheezy Wotsits, and slugging from a two-litre bottle of purple Vimto – giving the entire room the unmistakable combined odour of stale e-numbers and fishy cunt. As Michael and Harriet came into view, the older woman muted the sound, pulled her dildo out with a noisy squelch, and brandished it at her son accusingly. “Where the fuck’ve you been?” she demanded, in a gravelly voice.

“Church, Mum,” answered Michael quietly, his eyes fixed on the dark but faded floral carpet. “And I’ve brought Harriet home for a fuck – and to meet you...”

“If that’s all right, Mrs Didcock, how are you, lick my pussy, I’m Harriet, what a lovely home you have...?” added Harriet urgently but respectfully from behind Michael’s shoulder, smiling as broadly as she could.

The woman studied Harriet for a couple of seconds, then guffawed loudly, her large drooping dugs jiggling as she resumed gesticulating at them with her slimy dildo. “Oh, I don’t mind you visiting, cunt,” the woman sneered at Harriet, “but I’m amazed this good-for-nothing layabout managed to pull a hot piece of arse like you. What the fuck d’you see in him?”

Harriet stammered, “I ... I ... he pleasures me a lot, Mrs Didcock – and I hoped you wouldn’t mind us coming home together after church...”

Mrs Didcock laughed again, a deep, uproarious belly laugh, as if Harriet had just said something utterly ridiculous. “He pleasures you?! Pull the other one, cunt. He’s pathetic and useless, like his dad was. And he’s got a tiny dick, can’t get it hard most of time – how’s he going to pleasure you with that?” She rammed her dildo back into cunt and muttered a quiet “fuck” of pleasure.

Michael looked as if he wanted to disappear into the floor – but Harriet stood her ground: “No, Mrs Didcock, Mikey’s been healed: now his cock’s huge, and hard, and it pleasures me to be fucked by it.”

“Healed?!” Mrs Didcock’s face was a picture of incredulity and contempt. “You don’t really believe that bullshit, do you, cunt? Oh I know, I know, ‘God’ healed him, did He?” she scoffed. “Well, ‘God’ didn’t give me a husband who pleasured me! ‘God’ didn’t heal his cock! And ‘God’ has given me a son who’s no good at any fucking thing at all! Michael could’ve gone to college, got some proper qualifications. But no, instead he works in that fucking art gallery earning peanuts with all those other monkeys, and spends all his free time drawing pictures, or fucking praying,” – she pronounced the word with undisguised contempt – “deceiving himself into thinking that Jesus is going to come and save him from his own stupidity! You could do much better than him, cunt: look at you, all hot and blond, with your big tits and your tight arse, going to a posh school and all – sure, go on, go into his bedroom and suck his pathetic little dick if you like, but he’s not worth it, slut. Go and find a proper man who can pull his weight in the world, and who can fuck you like you deserve!”

Harriet stood, trembling. Michael’s face, red with humiliation, was still fixed on the floor. And on the screen, the big black cock had shifted upwards and was now silently sliding in and out of the girl’s asshole. Michael didn’t bother to reply to his mother, but shuffled backwards out of the living room, head bowed. Harriet followed him down the corridor. “Dickhead,” muttered Mrs Didcock at her son’s retreating footsteps, before turning the volume on her television up to full again, and ramming her dildo back into her hairy cunt. The dialogue from her movie – currently: Oh yeah, fuck my ass, stud; keep fucking my asshole with that big black cock! – pursued the youngsters down the corridor and through the door into Michael’s bedroom.