Breaking and Entering (26 page)

‘That's lovely,' Penny murmured. ‘Squeeze them both together, the way you did last night.' She gave a low grunt of approval, then opened an eye. ‘Oh, look! You're sticking up through the foam!'

He followed her gaze, immediately covering his erection with his hand, embarrassed by its blatancy; feeling as he often did, absurdly, that it had no right to assert itself, not even with his wife.

‘I'll wash
you
.' Penny grabbed the soap; the water seesawing dangerously and almost sloshing over the sides. She worked up a rich lather, then slicked her soapy hands around his penis. Mrs Gwynfryn Evans had provided unerotic coal-tar, but that didn't diminish his pleasure in the slightest – the luxurious sensation of her warm and slippery fingers sliding slowly up and down. Next she ran them teasingly along the inside of each thigh, going right down to the knees, before allowing them to creep ingeniously back. Then she cupped his balls, first lathering the soap again, to coat them in a spume of yellow froth. She knew exactly how to touch him, never squeezing too tight or hurting with her nails, but maintaining just the perfect pressure, so that it was all he could do not to forget his usual shyness and cry out in abandon.

Now she had found a loofah and was fretting its rough surface gently along his penis, even across the tip, which made him shudder with an exquisite sort of pain.

‘Do that again!' he urged. ‘It feels amazing.'

She took the loofah on a tour of all his curves and crannies, which ended by circling both his buttocks, grazing down between them.

‘Darling, you're driving me mad! Let's go back to the bedroom.'

‘No, I want to do it in the bath.'

‘We
can't
!'

‘We can. I'll kneel up on all fours, and you come behind me doggy fashion.'

‘But we'll splash water all over the place.'

‘Not if we let some out – not too much, though. I like the thought of doing it in water. I'm surprised the bubbles have lasted this long. They usually go flat.'

Like me, he thought, hastily suppressing the comparison before it could affect him. There was no more need to worry. He was cured now, like his daughter; could even make triumphant love in a constricting metal bathtub.

He released the plug and watched the water gurgling rudely out, then rammed it back before Penny lost her bubbles. They bumped into one another as he stood up and she knelt down, and he banged his elbow on the wall in trying to position himself.

But Penny was encouraging him, telling him it was fantastic before he'd even begun. Her wild words egged him on; the sight of her pale rump curving up in front of him; the caress of the warm water on his thighs. He disregarded the pain in his knees (which were pressing into the hard unyielding surface of the bath) and concentrated instead on the soft cushion of her flanks, the tingling of the bubbles as they fizzed against his skin. The angle was an awkward one, and his movements were restricted, but the restriction somehow added to his pleasure, made him feel adventurous, audacious.

‘Daniel stop! It's hurting.' She all but threw him off, cascading water over the floor. ‘You were right, I'm afraid. It isn't going to work.'

There were red ridged patches on her knees, and she was rubbing them and biting her lip; easing her cramped legs. Her hands also looked inflamed where she had gripped the taps too tightly. She stepped out on to the bath-mat, helped him out in turn. ‘Let's go back to bed.'

They dried each other on Mrs Gwynfryn Evans's stiff and skimpy towels, then Daniel folded them neatly; started mopping up the puddles on the lino.

‘Leave that, darling. “We can always do it later. Listen, I dare you to run naked to our room!'

His initial consternation changed into a laugh. ‘Okay, you're on!'

He sprinted ahead, collapsed on to the bedroom chair. Fondly, he surveyed their palatial Paris suite – the shabby walls, the shrunken curtains (which didn't reach the sill), the not-quite-fitted carpet with odd-shaped gaps revealing strips of floorboard. The morning sun had transformed the room, brightening the faded poppies on the curtains, gilding the white duvet. He especially liked that duvet. Although it had long since lost its original snowy freshness, it was still a bridal colour, affirming the idea of honeymoon, even of virginity, in the sense of a new start.

Penny followed, stretched out on the bed, her legs spread wide and one hand fondling her bush, as if she was too impatient to wait for him to do it. Her whole body was flushed pink from the heat and steam and the friction of the towels; a wisp of foam still clinging to her hair. He crept towards her and kissed it off, but she arched her back imperiously, using her body to tell him where she wanted him – inside.

He did as she demanded, and she immediately began to move – avidly, explosively, like a starving woman making up for months of deprivation. The bed was moving with her, creaking on its springs, emitting breathless moans of pleasure. She let out a muffled giggle. ‘D'you think we'll wake the goats?'

‘We'll certainly shock them,' he grunted, suddenly aware of the sounds beyond the bed – not a goat, but the crowing of a cock – an exultant doodle-doodle-do which matched his own elation. He grabbed the headboard to give himself more leverage; started lunging backwards and forwards, riding Penny, spurring her. She was making a low rumbling noise, like a lioness or tiger, growling her approval. It excited him to imagine her an animal, because
he
could be one too, then; return to the bush and play the part of the rutting king of the beasts. Why be a puny human, when you could turn yourself into the wildest of wild animals; mate twenty, thirty times a day; drive your worshipping females into transports of delight?

He made himself slow down. If he wanted to repeat last night, then he mustn't come too soon, but relish the sensation of being in control; the leader of the pack who had all the time in the world to pleasure his sleek mates, one by rapturous one.

‘Don't stop!' said Penny urgently.

‘I'm not.' He was merely drawing breath, holding back a moment so he could rub his mane across her swanskin breasts. Through the open window he could hear the lazy morning igniting into life: a van pulling up outside; feet tramping to the door, the pealing of the bell. It was probably a delivery – a parcel, or some groceries, or perhaps the boiler-man or the vet. He pitied those poor drones, with their schedules and their daily grind, their obeisance to the clock, while his only arduous task was to disport himself in bed.

Penny suddenly pushed him off. ‘I want to come on top.'

He rolled across the duvet and stood up. His easy-going wife changed character in bed; often taking the initiative, and issuing her orders with a certain brusque imperiousness which never failed to turn him on.

‘Hey, look!' she said, pointing to the wall, ‘you've got two pricks!'

The sun was flooding through the half-drawn curtains, casting strong dramatic shadows, giving him a second body, and a second – longer – penis. She darted over to the wall, stroked the shadow-phallus from insubstantial root to evanescent tip. ‘It's growing even bigger,' she said, teasingly.

‘Quick!' he urged, pushing her back towards the bed before the real version could droop and disappoint her. That exaggerated shadow seemed to mock his flesh-and-blood dimensions, demonstrate an unobtainable ideal. The mere thought of it unnerved him, and he could feel himself already going softer, but Penny climbed astride him and started reviving him – thank God. Her breasts looked more voluptuous from that angle; shimmying with her rhythm, all but swamping him in flesh. Her excitement kindled his, as he kissed the breasts, buffed them with his chin; felt them jouncing wildly in his hands.

‘Don't come yet!' she commanded.

‘I won't,' he reassured her, though he wished she hadn't spoken, or made it quite so clear that she wanted more – and more. Not only had the shadow undermined him, but he had lost his strutting confidence now he'd changed back from lion to man. The sun was in his eyes, and as he moved out of the glare, he was suddenly reminded of that intrusive sun the morning of his wedding anniversary; Juliet's earrings glinting in its merciless light.

In seconds he was limp – totally, demeaningly – already slithering out. He blundered off the bed before Penny could start commenting or offering him first aid. Her frantic (hopeless) efforts to revive him would only make things worse, underline his failure. He kept his voice determinedly cool as he slunk towards the door. ‘I … think I need a pee, that's all.'

He stumbled to the bathroom, where the moist air reeked of bubble-bath – carnation mixed with pear-drops, a sickly, mocking smell. He sat hunched on the edge of the bath, jabbing at the wet towels with his foot. The taunting sun had pursued him even here, and was striping his bare body like the swaggering wild animal he had so patently failed to be. He jumped up and drew the curtain, swathed himself in the towels. He knew he was overreacting. He had lasted very well, in fact, far longer than in recent weeks; far longer than the average man, if you could believe those endless sex-surveys. But he'd still lost his erection, suddenly and groundlessly, which meant he had a problem, and one which could only get worse. He couldn't take his potency for granted; would always be on edge in case he deflated prematurely, and the fear alone was enough to make it happen. Even now, Penny was waiting eagerly, expecting him to frolic back and continue where he'd left off. He simply couldn't face her – neither her passion nor her pity. Once she realized he felt wretched, he knew exactly what she'd say: that they couldn't expect to rival last night's marathon, and that it had all been marvellous anyway.

But she didn't understand what was going through his mind. This was more than just a physical problem, though it was well nigh impossible to put the notion into words – it would sound utterly absurd. But he knew at some deep level that because he'd tried to delude himself that both he and Pippa had recovered from their different forms of disablement, he was being shown how wrong he was; reminded of his promise to make proper expiation for her sickness and his own. The voices in the garden the night of Pippa's birthday party had first tried to point the way, but he had refused to give them credence. They had warned a second time, when she had returned to school and her condition had got worse, so he had finally capitulated and agreed to visit the Welsh healer.

Well, he had agreed up to this morning, at which point he'd changed his mind again, tortuously convincing himself that there was nothing wrong with Pippa except the business of her periods and too much pressured school-work, and that both could be alleviated by a spell of pastoral bliss. But was it really likely that three months' silence could be cancelled out so easily, or had no more complex cause? Supposing she had a relapse and returned to her mute world? If he refused to meet the healer or even visit the camp at all, then his only chance of …

Suddenly he tensed, hands gripping the edge of the bath. He could hear noises from the bedroom, intruding even here – loud orgasmic noises. Penny had obviously given up all hope of his returning and was bringing herself off. He sprang up in a fury. Did she have to be so blatant, trumpet to half Wales that she didn't need him anyway and could climax on her own?

He darted to the basin, grabbed his toothbrush and started scrubbing and swilling, then gulped a glass of water to douse his irrational rage. He was being totally unfair. If he'd left her high and dry, why shouldn't she take over and finish the job herself? If anyone was angry, it should be her, not him. He ought to go and tell her he was sorry, instead of skulking in the bathroom indulging in a fit of pique.

The ‘sorry' came out gruffly. He was embarrassed by her body, spreadeagled on the bed; the nipples still erect, the skin sheened with perspiration and flushed from her exertions.

She sat up slowly, looking sated, almost drugged. ‘There's nothing to be sorry about. It was absolutely great.'

He shrugged. Hadn't he known that was what she'd say? Her voice sounded husky – what he called her bedroom voice. It always deepened after they'd made love.

‘I've been thinking,' she continued, one hand laid across her breasts, as if savouring a last flicker of gratification. ‘Why don't we stay here for a few days? Pippa would adore it, and it would do you good as well.'

He filled in the sub-text: do my erections good, you mean. But she was wrong, in fact, quite wrong; adopting the same false reasoning as he had. He mumbled something inaudible, reluctant to upset her, or embark on an irrelevant discussion about what might be best for Pippa.

She patted the rumpled bed. ‘Come and have a cuddle, darling. You're looking really miserable.'

‘No,' he said, reaching for his shirt. ‘It's time we were up and dressed.'

‘What's the rush?'

‘I want my breakfast. I'm starving!' Actually, he had lost all appetite, but he hoped it might be easier to talk to her over breakfast. It was essential to convince her that they must leave immediately, press on to the camp without any further delays. But he seemed lost for words at present, and Penny looked crestfallen before he had even spoken, as if she had picked up on his own mood.

They dressed in gloomy silence. One part of him was tempted to tear off all his clothes again and burrow back beneath the covers; to accept that promised cuddle and dally here all week in a cosy farmhouse fantasy. Yet he knew it was impossible.

He glanced out of the window at the narrow road leading past the farm. It coiled and switchbacked up the hill, then lost itself in woodland. The drive would be long and difficult, but there was no alternative. He had to honour the solemn commitment he'd made to seek healing for his daughter.

‘We must be nearly there,' said Penny. ‘We've been driving half the day.'