30 Days in June

  30 DAYS IN JUNE

  Chris Westlake

  Copyright © 2019 by Chris Westlake

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  First published in Great Britain in 2019

  Any reference to real names and places are purely fictional and are constructs of the author. Any offence the references produce is unintentional and in no way reflects the reality of any locations or people involved.

  A copy of this book is available through the British Library.

  ISBN 9781712581353

  Cover design by Elizabeth Ponting, LP Designs & Art

  Editorial services provided by Mirador Publishing

  www.chriswestlakeauthor.co.uk

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  DAY ONE 1ST JUNE 1988

  DAY ONE 1ST JUNE 2018

  DAY TWO 2ND JUNE 2018

  DAY THREE 3RD JUNE 1988

  DAY FOUR 4TH JUNE 2018

  DAY FIVE 5TH JUNE 2018

  DAY SIX 6TH JUNE 1988

  DAY SEVEN 7TH JUNE 2018

  DAY EIGHT 8TH JUNE 1988

  DAY NINE 9TH JUNE 2018

  DAY TEN 10TH JUNE 2018

  DAY ELEVEN 11TH JUNE 2018

  DAY TWELVE 12TH JUNE 2018

  DAY THIRTEEN 13TH JUNE 2018

  DAY FOURTEEN 14TH JUNE 2018

  DAY FIFTEEN 15TH JUNE 2018

  DAY SIXTEEN 16TH JUNE 1988

  DAY SEVENTEEN 17TH JUNE 2018

  DAY EIGHTEEN 18TH JUNE 2018

  DAY NINETEEN 19TH JUNE 2018

  DAY TWENTY 20TH JUNE 2018

  DAY TWENTY-ONE 21ST JUNE 2018

  DAY TWENTY-TWO 22ND JUNE 2018

  DAY TWENTY-THREE 23RD JUNE 1988

  DAY TWENTY-FOUR 24TH JUNE 2018

  DAY TWENTY-FIVE 25TH JUNE 2018

  DAY TWENTY-SIX 26TH JUNE 2018

  DAY TWENTY-SEVEN 27TH JUNE 2018

  DAY TWENTY-EIGHT 28TH JUNE 2018

  DAY TWENTY-NINE 29TH JUNE 2018

  DAY TWENTY-NINE 29TH JUNE 1988

  DAY THIRTY 30TH JUNE 2018

  About the Author

  DAY ONE

  1ST JUNE 1988

  Removing his foot from the pedal, John Watts flicks the full beams of his Austin Allegro so that the figure up ahead - the only figure - illuminates like an actor in the spotlight.

  Red-brick buildings cast a shadow on the road. Black smoke spouted from the chimneys a decade or so ago, but now the factories are shut, the buildings abandoned. Moss fills the cracks, and wood fills the square windows. This is a forgotten street. No light. No life.

  Squinting at the clock on the dashboard, John inhales the early morning breeze blowing through the open window. The car edges closer. He can hear the heels clicking on the bumpy tarmac. His eyes follow the zip running the length of the black leather boots, stopping just north of the knee. Closer. A glimpse of pale white flesh separates the boots from the pencil skirt, clinging to the thighs. Thrusting his head out of the window, John recalls the intoxicating perfume he inhaled when he brushed close to the figure in the club, just hours earlier.

  The head outside remains high, eyes focussed on the monotonous, unchanging road ahead, seemingly oblivious to the car, now just feet away. The fake eyelashes do not blink. There is no sideways glance. Could be on the catwalk. The narrow hips swish from side to side. A black handbag dangles from the right shoulder.

  John beeps the horn. Like a click of his finger; the figure is awakened from the trance. Long fingers on hips. Swivels to face the car. The lips remain a full, red line. No cracks in the painted face.

  Plumping his cheeks, John keeps his lips pressed tight together; a thirty-a-day habit has left his teeth yellow and rotting. "Don't want to be out here on your own at this time of the morning," he says. "Never know who might be lurking with bad intentions now, do you?"

  His face burns as the almond eyes unblinkingly evaluate him. The long legs bend at the knee as the pelvis is thrust forward. John's upper lip quivers as silence fills the air. His jaw drops as the scent of the perfume grows more alluring. Click of the heels. The door is pulled open and then pushed shut. Bloodshot eyes glance in the mirror, as the legs unfold and then part to allow enough room in the back seat. John blows air from his puffed cheeks.

  Not usually this easy.

  Pushing his fingers inside the pocket of his jeans, John digs out an oval mint; it disappears inside his waiting mouth. Only has a few left and so he decides against offering one. Taps the steering wheel. His rapid thoughts rebound off each other like a pinball. Important to get the balance right, he thinks. Important to be interesting and interested, but not appear too keen, too eager.

  "Gets cold this time of morning, doesn't it?" he says. "And it's been such a hot day, too. Difficult to know what to wear when you go out, don't you think?"

  His eyes flicker in the mirror, notices the rise of the skirt, that it barely covers the curve of the buttocks. Forces his eyes to rise. Needs to get the balance. Catches the shrug of the shoulders. They are lean and broad: swimmer's shoulders. The head turns, stares at the blank canvas out of the window. John seizes the opportunity. Eyes narrow into slits as they scan every muscle and contour of the beautiful body in the back of the car. In the back of his car. The thighs are slightly parted. His eyes focus on the straight line that divides the leather boots from cold, naked flesh. His eyes are ready to continue their journey, keep moving higher, keep continuing all the way to the top, but the head turns away from the window and catches him looking. John is sure he saw the briefest of smiles. He strains against his jeans, digs into the hardness of the steering wheel.

  John turns to his wife in the passenger seat. Forgot she was there. He idly wonders what she makes of this sudden - incredible - development. Will she be jealous? Will she give him a hard time? Her puffy cheeks are flushed, and her glasses have left red indents on both sides of her nose. The street lights bring focus to her oily, pockmarked skin, like moon craters. Her tight, shapeless top is just another layer over rolls of belly. John wonders what the beauty in the back of his car thinks of his sexless wife? They've been together a long time; they are partners in crime. John is blissfully aware he is lucky to have found somebody with the same mindset. She is even worse than he is. Sure, she might be bristling with jealousy, but John knows that underneath that outsized skirt, his wife's drab panties are soaked from thinking about the events that are about to unfold.

  John turns around. "Let me apologise for my lack of courtesy," he says, momentarily exposing his teeth before slamming his mouth tight. "How rude of me. No introductions. My name is John, and this lovely lady here is my wife, Valerie."

  Silence.

  They'd discussed giving false names, but they both agreed: what was the point? They never met for a second time. They had rules, and the first rule was that they never broke the rules. John shakes his head as Valerie shuffles in her seat and gives a limp wave. Did she think she was the Queen? He waits for a return introduction. None comes. John fiddles with the radio button, keen to fill the void. Turns the volume up. The male voice is calm and monotone.

  "The news today, 1st June 1988. London prepares for the visit of President Reagan tomorrow. The President, who has been in meetings with General Secretary Mikhail Gorbachev over the last few days, is scheduled to meet both the Queen and the Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher...”

  John mutters under his breath. Changes the station. Bops his head back and forth to the blaring music. Won't you take me to funky town?

  Glances in the mirror. Decides it is time to pick up the pace, that it is finally time for t
he train to leave the station. "Did you have a good night, darling? Busy, wasn't it? Especially for a Wednesday..."

  The nod is slow and mechanical. Much better than John anticipated. All the encouragement he needs to keep talking, to introduce his charm offensive. "That club sure is an odd place, isn't it? Full of freaks. Present company excluded, of course. We both saw you in there, didn't we, Valerie?"

  "We sure did, John."

  "There were some proper sights, weren't there?" John shakes his head and chuckles, pulls back an involuntary snort. "Still, each to their own and all that. We're liberals. Very open-minded about these things. But you were different, darling. You were special. Stood out in a good way. We both said so, didn't we, dear?"

  "We sure did, John."

  John moves the car from second to first as they pull up on the drive of their semi-detached house in the quiet cul-de-sac they'd lived in for over fifteen years. He'd mowed the lawn over the weekend and taken the opportunity to chat with his neighbours, who were mainly out washing their cars. It was a nice little community. John was part of the Neighbourhood Watch scheme and they'd baby sat for a couple of the younger families. Unplugging his seatbelt (John still wasn't used to the damn things), John swivels his hips to properly face their young victim for the first time. "Nightcap?" he asks. John raises his eyebrows, flecked with silver.

  This was where they were going to face objections, of course. Hadn't even asked for an address from their beautiful young guest, just headed straight to their house like it was a perfectly natural thing to do. John squeezes his wife's clammy hand. They were in this together.

  The eyes in the back seat have returned to staring out of the window. The head turns. John's cheeks prickle as the eyes fix on his own. Ready for the onslaught, the protests. The dark hairs on his arms straighten. Valerie rearranges the position of her ample backside on the seat next to him. John's jaw is heavy and numb as the long legs in the back unravel. The door opens and shuts. His eyes are like saucers as the legs make their way up his drive and then stop outside his front door. Turns. The hands are on the hips. Again. The shoulders shrug.

  What the fuck are you waiting for?

  John struggles to keep his tongue in his mouth and his dick in his trousers as he hurries out of the motor and dangles his keys in the door. His poor wife waddles somewhere behind him, just as keen, but lacking his natural athleticism. Inside, their guest sinks into the depths of the sofa without waiting to be asked. John returns from the kitchen with three glasses of red wine. Valerie gulps and snorts and stains the rim with lipstick. She rests her hand on one of the long legs for just a few moments too long, daring to be outrageous.

  "Why don't you go and change into something a little more comfortable, Valerie?" John asks.

  His wife looks up at him from the sofa and wolfishly grins. "Something more comfortable, you say?"

  John felt there was no need for his wife to raise her eyebrows quite so many times; it looked like she was having a funny turn. Valerie struggles up out of the chair and, blowing her husband a kiss, says, "I'll be back in just a few minutes. Don't go anywhere."

  John barely waits for his wife to leave the room before occupying the space she vacated on the settee. "Bless her," he says. He shuffles, reducing the gap between them. "I love her to bits, of course. Who wouldn't? Such a kind heart. But we are very used to each other. Fish and chips is all very well, but sometimes it is nice to have steak, isn't it? I hardly know you at all and that makes you so much more interesting, don't you think?"

  The plump lips sip the wine. The body stretches at the waist and places the glass on the living room table. Hair falls down to the chest. The brown eyes fix on John. "I know exactly what you mean, John."

  The voice is deep and husky, like it belongs to a completely different body, and John instantly twitches. He brushes his fingertips down the nape of the neck.

  "You do?"

  "Oh yes. I certainly do..."

  "So what should we call you?" John asks.

  "You can call me Samantha..."

  John's hand rests on the shapely naked thigh, in precisely the same spot his wife rested her hand just moments before. His fingertips are teasing at first, like a feather, and then he massages more firmly. The legs widen. An invite. His hand rises, continues higher...

  The door pushes open. His wife enters the room. John removes his hand, not quite sure why. He bites his lower lip; blood trickles on the tip of his tongue.

  "Why, don't you look sexy?" their guest slurs, looking up at Valerie.

  Valerie does a twirl, transformed into a giggly sixteen-year-old-girl trying on her frock for the Prom. Only, Valerie is not sixteen: she is forty-three. She is not trying on a frock: she is clad in a black leather bodice, and she holds a whip in her right hand. Her fleshy pink bosom spills and jiggles. She places one hand on her hip and gazes challengingly at their guest.

  "As you can probably see, neither Valerie nor myself are prudes. I guess you might call us broad-minded. We are into some pretty interesting things..."

  "No shit."

  John watches from the pit of their sofa as their guest stands up and towers over his wife, now in four-inch heels. John arches his neck to look up the skirt. He has been a good boy for long enough. Now it is time to be a bad boy.

  He pulls himself up. He can't control his hands any more. They disappear inside the skirt, frantically reaching for what has been playing on his mind all night. The legs part a few inches more. This time he won't be stopped. This is what he is really interested in. His hand continues rising, all the way to the top. There you go.

  His hand cups the balls, squeezing them like a limpet, and then they grab hold of the dick. So much thicker than his own. So much longer.

  "We sure have found ourselves a big boy here, Valerie," John says to his wife, his mouth wet with saliva.

  John is aware of his own tiny erection, hidden away somewhere under the overflow of his belly. Glancing at his wife, he suddenly resents the look of wanton desire on her thin lips. She is comparing their young, athletic guest to him. He squeezes hard on the dick. He is in control. John straightens his back but still he looks up at the young man, pale pretty face partly hidden by a frizzy, brunette wig. John is aware that his wife is dressed up because she wants the young man inside her. She wants to be fucked by a real man for a change, not by him.

  The guy puts his hand inside the skirt and snaps John's hand away. The hold on John's wrist is strong. John couldn't resist, even if he tried. His wife is right: ironically, there is only one man in the room now.

  "Let me have some fun with that beautiful wife of yours before you get what you want, John," he says.

  John is taken aback by the forcefulness of the command. How old is this lad? Old enough - for sure - but still, barely out of school. And yet, here he is, ordering him about in his house, demanding to do whatever he wants with his wife. Blood flows to his dick.

  Fanning thin air and twirling her middle finger, Valerie says, "Come here, you naughty boy."

  "Pass me that whip," the boy says.

  "Ooh, I love it when a man takes control," Valerie coos, thrusting out her monumental bosom. It does look magnificent, John thinks. She passes him the whip. She does exactly as she is told.

  "Bend over."

  John watches as his wife obediently bends at the waist. Her breasts finally spill out of the bodice, two gigantic mounds of flesh dangling towards the floor. Her plump bottom points to the ceiling, the skin rippling. John slumps back onto the sofa, disappears into the background. Unzips his fly.

  The young man, still dressed in a short skirt and thigh-length black leather boots and who, until a few hours ago, was a complete stranger to John and Valerie, pulls back his hand and smacks the naked buttocks. Valerie yelps with pleasure. John's trousers are down by his knees. The young man pulls back with the whip and slashes it down against the rippling flesh. John listens to his wife screaming.

  "Turn around," the boy commands.

 
Valerie turns around. John notices that her eyes are watery and red. Tears trickle down her pink cheeks. She holds out her hands. What does she want? Help? It serves her right. John looks down pitifully at his own limp cock.

  The whip slashes down against her naked breast, leaving a red mark, like a jolt of lightning.

  "No!" she shouts. "Stop! You're hurting me!"

  The boy slashes harder. John notices the sinewy muscle in his arms. The boy's face is distorted with glee. He turns to John challengingly. What are you going to do about it? John looks up at the boy. He takes his hand away from his crotch. "I think maybe you are being too rough with her?" John says.

  The boy looks him up and down. He says nothing, but the look says it all. John has never felt so pathetic, so dirty.

  "This is what she wants," the boy says. He pulls back his hand and then whips Valerie with such force that even John flinches. John gets up. No man is going to treat his wife like this, not his darling Valerie, his partner in crime. John clenches his fists, tightens them into tiny, knotted balls. His trousers are down by his knees. He cannot keep his balance. The lad swipes at him with the back of his hand, hitting him flush on the mouth. John plunges towards the edge of the coffee table. He rolls over onto his back. His head leaks. He stares up at the lights, which are bright and yellow and nauseating.

  He realises that the deafening noise in the room is the sound of his wife screaming. The side of his face presses against the carpet. Saliva trickles down his chin. He reaches out at the black leather boots, but as he does so the boot moves out of reach and the heel stabs down against his mouth. Again. And again.

  There are just shapes and colours as the world goes in and out of focus. John has a perfect view up the skirt from this angle. The boy kneels down. Unzips one of the long leather boots. Pulls something out. John squints. The bright light reflects from the sharp object in the boy's hand. Just what is it?

  John only realises that it is a stainless steel cut-throat razor when it is far, far too late to do anything about it.