Last Call

She clumped up the middle of Singers Road ignoring the pavements, damp and slippy with the mush of fallen leaves darkening pools against the wire fences, ignoring her mum’s advice to get a taxi. Her feet clattered down the four steps and through the deserted, dark tunnel, walls sweating with rain and mouldering damp and the harsh ammoniac smell of pee making her choke and hurry all the more. Almost home.

He jumped her. She wasn’t really sure where he came from. He was just a presence grabbing at her clothes, forcing his hands through the loose damp armholes of her shirt. He rubbed against the cotton of her bra, pushing hard against yielding flesh, flattening her skin, feeling, squeezing, stinging her nipples. His face a blur on her neck, breathing uneven, he danced like an Indian behind her, his eyes glassy as he crouched over her, stinking of booze, lips pared back from his teeth, his thing dry humping her as if tearing himself in two, groaning, trying to find a way through denim.  He pulled at her hair, forcing her sideways against the stairs, almost toppling her and him with it.

‘Touch it,’ he demanded, thrusting his cock towards her like an elbow.

But she had her phone in her hand and thumbed nine, nine, nine. ‘Which service do you require?’ Her phone automatically went through a list of options which included news about alternative routes for HGV vehicles over the Forth Road Bridge. She hit on number two which offered her the option of calling back later as all the lines were busy or hanging on.

He let out a moan and shot his load over the hem of her jacket. He straightened up, shaky, flushed, out of breath.  ‘Sorry, about that,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t hang on any longer.’ He tucked himself in and zipped up