Page 78 of Blow Down (The Plumber's Mate)
Then he started to undress me.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt so fucking cherished in my life. Every inch of me was stroked and kissed, like it was nothing short of miraculous. Maybe to Phil it was, right then. Despite the soreness from my injuries, I was still hard as iron by the time he made it down to my cock. I mean, Christ, I don’t think anything short of decapitation could’ve stopped me getting hard at that point.
Then he put his mouth on my cock. I panted, although even that hurt, because it was so fucking good. His hand was on my balls, just where I like it, his other hand holding my hip. Not holding me down. Just . . . holding me. Everything faded but heat and pressure where I needed it most.
I came so hard I saw stars, ecstasy shooting out of me and into Phil’s willing mouth. He swallowed every drop and carried on sucking until I pushed him off my oversensitised prick. I was pretty sure I had a Cheshire cat grin on my face.
It probably looked well creepy with the red eyes and the bruises, mind.
I gestured to Phil’s cock, which was hard and dripping clear moisture.
He shook his head, the big daft git. “I’m okay.”
I rolled my eyes at him. “C’mere,” I whispered, and pulled him up to kiss me, ignoring the discomfort. I wrapped my hand around his hard prick and stroked it the way I knew he liked it, a little bit rough. Phil’s mouth tasted of come, and I could tell he was holding back, trying not to hurt me. “C’mon,” I breathed, stroking faster.
Phil groaned and came, hot spunk shooting over my stomach and chest. Then we cuddled up under the duvet and dozed for a couple of hours.
Course, it was a bugger getting the dried come off by the time we woke up.
I’d been expecting the police to either turn up at some time, or call me in to make another (written) statement. I was surprised when it was Dave who turned up—fortunately after me and Phil had made ourselves presentable.
“Christ, you look like shite,” was his encouraging greeting, despite the shower I’d taken.
I frowned at him, raising an eyebrow as well in a bit of an awkward facial manoeuvre that was supposed to somehow convey Shouldn’t you be at home, knee-deep in nappies?
Apparently Dave was a master of interpreting expressions. Who knew? “Jen’s got her sister over, so I’m surplus to requirements anyhow. Thought I might as well come over and see what you’ve done to yourself this time.”
I glanced at Phil. He shrugged. “I didn’t tell him. Tea?”
That was to Dave, who said, “Cheers, mate,” huffed, and eased his bulk onto my sofa. “After all the shit you’ve been mixed up in? Anything comes in with your name on it, they send it straight over to me. They know I like a good laugh down at the station. Anyhow, you remembered anything you didn’t already tell ’em? Course you bloody haven’t. Right. So they’ve been down to the scene, and this is what we can tell you.”
Phil perched his arse on the arm of a chair. Looked like Dave was going to have to wait for his cup of tea.
“Whoever it was got you with a length of clothesline. Abandoned at the scene. Brand-new—probably fresh out of the wrapper just before they used it—and no fingerprints. Some DNA, but given the nature of it, we’re working on the assumption it’ll all turn out to be yours.”
“So they went prepared,” Phil growled. “Any indications it was the same assailant as Mrs. Fenchurch-Majors’s killer?”
“What, apart from the bleedin’ obvious?” Dave asked, echoing my thoughts exactly. He shook his head. “For the love of God, do not suggest we have two crazed stranglers wandering around the county.”
Phil shrugged.
Dave turned to me. “How are you doing, anyhow?”
I shrugged. There was a right old shoulder workout session going on around here.
“Right. Any more thoughts on the person who attacked you? Was it a bloke?”
I nodded—then wondered what grounds I actually had for thinking that. I grabbed my notepad and wrote, Think so but not sure. Taller than me, I think. Or same height.
“You didn’t notice the hands?”
I gestured to my throat, because honestly? I’d had a bit more on my mind at the time than whether my attacker had cleaned under their nails recently. Although . . .
Gloves, I wrote. Thick ones. I think, I added, as to be honest it was just a vague impression.
“Makes sense. Remember anything else about the gloves? Colour? Men’s or women’s?”
I shook my head. I mean, maybe if the hands themselves had been around my neck, I’d have had a better idea.
