/ Vicky’s Tumble /
Out Cantley way by British Sugar, in the stench of molasses
and run off, along the Yare, along the banks there, where the eddies are, and
the eels be aswim like freed lips squirming dark and slippery in the murk, I
coaxed her into reluctant coupling while her oafish partner swallowed pints with
Sertraline and dozed on the sofa; she was scarcely dressed for outside, tan
suede ankle boots left saturated from the long grass and the reed beds, and in
a quiet spot as I began to knead her arse through her trousers and feel it give,
hear the flesh parts parting, and push her gently towards a wet metal bench
anchored in an oblong of pocked concrete for watching the cruisers, so
I could coax her cunt out just enough to
fuck, she instead slipped on the flattened reeds and into the waters, where
after a brief spell of screaming and great effort she soon fell silent beneath
the surface and still, a poor swimmer for a girl from the quaggy villages, and
I sat and touched myself and left her floating body for the farmers to find.
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