He stirred restlessly as his troubled sleep was interrupted yet again, as he felt the hand tracing the inside of his thigh, stealing upwards. And started, fully awake now. His heart beating like a hammer, his pyjamas damp with sweat, and as for the bedsheets……he dreaded the silent knowingness with which his mother did not mention what she had noticed, each time now, every time she knocked and came to his room at the weekend, for his washing. His bedlinen.
Once again there was the mere impression of an inky shadow stealing its way towards the window again, just out of the corner of his eye, too far out of angle to be sure that it was no trick of the imagination. Yet he was wise this time. All he had to do was to feign sleep, even to trick himself into a semi-drowsy slumber, and the shadow would return. Only more substantial…..
His body quivered in delicious anticipation
And sure enough, as he felt the sleepiness crowd in on his awareness again, his limbs succumbing to the delicious heaviness of sleep they craved, so did that sense of the other. His back began to arch as it always did as he began to hear the soft breathing close to him, the gossamer touch of that impossibly thick, soft and wavy hair, as it tickled his chest, the softness between the angle of his shoulder and throat. And that cool, slender hands, first just the haziest suggestion of touch, then the firmer materialisation of the presence against his overwrought and feverish flesh. First they would trace the length along his stomach, then his thighs, then his loins, into exquisite, unimaginable and sinful ecstasies, as finally the full weight of his nocturnal Visitor finally lowered itself upon him, enfolding him with her voluminous and membranous wings. And sucked his seed, his emerging manhood away from him, again and again and again.
These nocturnal visits did not pass without leaving their mark on him, even he could see for himself, the signs of depletion in his face, on his face, on most days: the dark, bruised shadows under his eyes, the pallor, an occasionally glassy look in his eyes.
‘Well, he is not anaemic, Mrs Wells,’ the doctor had pronounced, complacently looking up from the test results he had just received, eyes twinkling behind the glasses. ‘No sign of diabetes either, nor of any vitamin deficiency. And I think we can rule out the possibility of anything more serious. There are no signs of bruising or nosebleeds, as we have discussed before. David appears to be a perfectly fit young man.’ Here, he smiled indulgently.
‘However…’ – and here, David could have sworn that the geniality of those twinkling eyes had just briefly penetrated his very soul, recognised the hidden decadence and sinfulness from within: ‘David could probably do with a few more early nights. Adolescence can make a lot of demands on the system, and what with so many pressures…’
‘I will also prescribe some vitamin pills for the tiredness.’
Suddenly, confronting David full on again with those shrewd eyes that missed nothing, he told him:
‘You shouldn’t bottle up any problems, you know. Your mother is a very understanding lady.’
The effect of that last admonition was enough to give the grounds for his mother to create many an understanding mother-to-son interrogation in the next few days to come. How he hated having his soul, his feelings and movements probed in this way! No, he was not taking drugs, and no, there wasn’t any girl, nor had he got her into any kind of trouble. Neither – and he could not believe his mother had suspected this of him, just because he was moody and didn’t feel much like communicating about his private life or inner feelings – had he ever started to hear or see things that weren’t there. Did she really think he was going off his head?????
So much for his Mum being his best friend.
His father was not much better. At breakfasts the newspaper was stonily set in front of him, a list of possible temporary Summer jobs already ringed in violent red for him to peruse.
