Her Mum's Kitchen

It was hard to see in her Mum’s kitchen. It was always thick with smoke. Not smoke from cooking - not much cooking went on in that kitchen. Smoke from her Mum’s cigarettes. If her Mum could’ve rolled pastry as well as she rolled a bit of baccy and paper, she doubted she’d be the size 8 she was today. In fact she had a lot more to thank her Mum’s nicotine addiction for than her skinny little ass.

It was her pert buttock that started it all. He pinched it as he passed her in the club. She saw him blow her kiss as he walked towards the bar, motioning for her to join him. Her friends urged her to follow, told her he was far too fit to ignore. And well, she deserved a bit of fun after the way Andy had treated her. So she DIO’d her Bacardi Breezer and followed the trail of testosterone.

He’d insisted on walking her back to her Mum’s. On kissing her goodnight outside the front door. She thought he’d started walking back down the path as she turned the key in the lock, but suddenly there he was pushing her inside, pushing her forwards through the hallway and into the kitchen. One hand over her mouth, the other pushing her forwards. Forwards over the kitchen worktop. Darkness. The sound of a zip opening. Her arms flaying across the worktop searching for something. Help. The sponginess of the tobacco packet first, then on top something small, hard. Grab. Flick lighter. Flame to denim. Shrieks. Obscenities. Legs being slapped.
Jeans pulled down. Off.

She watched his silhouette run from the kitchen and out the front door, then stamped on his jeans until all the flames were out. Her Mum’s kitchen thick with smoke.