Red Grow the Roses. Janine Ashbless

and fishnets are going straight in the bin. Luckily Mr Dick isn’t much interested in the long view. He just goes ‘Stockings? Wow! Count me in!’

      The streets slip past with unfamiliar swiftness: small shops and tree-lined avenues. It’s the dead time of the night and anything that does close down has done. The entrance to my local Underground station is barred with a metal grille, but the illuminated sign warns me I’m nearly home. I shake myself from my reverie as we pull up outside my apartment block. It’s only a year old and it gleams darkly against the sodium glow of the sky. It won an architectural award, did Mavin Wood Towers. It’s a nice place to live. They had to cut the wood down to build it, of course.

      Then the taxi-driver switches on the interior light and all the cab windows turn to mirrors, and I see her in the reflection. She’s in the seat next to me, her feet drawn up on the upholstery: the girl from the bathroom mirror. She’s very pretty but completely colourless, like she’s been sculpted in ash, and only her eyes look truly real. I jump nearly out of my skin this time, and turn without thinking to swipe at the place she sits. My hand bounces off the empty seat cushion.

      ‘You OK, mate?’ The cabby sounds suspicious.

      ‘Uh,’ I say. ‘Yes.’ I shove notes into his hand and don’t wait for any change. I’m out of the taxi without another glance at my reflection, and as my feet touch the pavement I suddenly remember the identity of the man who came out of the bathroom. It’s like a door opening in my head. Of course I knew him. I’d seen him a number of times around the mayor’s office. Reynauld.

      ‘Oh, fuck,’ I say to myself, suddenly sweating with anxiety. The bastards know how to mess with your head like that. They can do more or less what they like, I gather. I’m not directly involved in liaison, but everyone in city politics knows about them.

      I hurry to the front door of the block. It’s made of smoked glass and, as I reach for the number-plate to type in my security code, I see that behind my own dark reflection there’s a woman standing on the pavement under the streetlight. The woman. She’s veiled from head to foot, but the light goes straight through the gauze to outline her delicate body. She’s not moving, she’s just watching me.

      With a convulsive movement I yank open the door and pull it to behind me. There’s resistance and I feel a frisson of panic, but it’s probably only the hydraulic spring. I’m inside and safe.

      They can’t come inside unless you invite them, isn’t that right?

      * * *

      I’m doing my best to help the process along. I want to be a dad. I mean, I guess I do. I accept it’s going to change my life, it just doesn’t seem real yet. If it were up to me we’d both just bumble on as usual and leave it all up to chance, so it’s a good thing Penny’s got her teeth into the matter, I suppose. She always gets her way in the end.

      Of course, even Mr Dick can be cussed and rebellious. Certain things are on the Forbidden List now, with the inevitable consequence that I’m constantly thinking about how much I want to do them. Like, no more hand-shandies; I’m not allowed to waste good cum.

      How strange is it that masturbation is now an unattainable privilege?

      * * *

      I step out of the bath and towel myself down as the water drains. Somehow I manage to catch my own eye in the mirror. I’ve been a bit wary of mirrors since seeing that wraith-woman, but there’s been no sign of her since that first night and I’m feeling reasonably secure here. I’m at home for the weekend and it’s daylight, even if it is a watery winter light. It was probably all a figment of my imagination anyway, I know. If you’re awake and working for twenty hours in a day it’s no wonder that you start dreaming on your feet.

      The bathroom’s tiled and accessorised in black and white and the towels match; my body is the only object in the mirror with any colour to it. I look at myself critically, but I’m pretty pleased, let’s face it. I look fit. I’ve kept the stomach bulge and the man-boobs at bay. I’ve still got a full head of hair, cut in a style that says ‘prime’ and not ‘middle-aged’. My cock and balls look just fine. I focus on the latter, hanging low in their sling of flesh, a bit struck all of a sudden by the magical potential of their bag of tricks. Whole new lives nestle in those spheres. Million of potential futures. If I was the last man alive I could repopulate the whole country, the whole world, given enough women and enough time to fuck them all. The thought makes Mr Dick swell a little, and I cup my balls encouragingly. ‘Come on, Boys,’ I whisper, giving them a little squeeze. ‘You can do it.’

      It’s my day off: we’ve not had sex this morning. And now I want to stroke off, but it’s not allowed. I lift my cock away from my scrotum, feeling the slight pull as the damp skin separates. My cock responds to the touch by filling up a little, bobbing free of gravity. I shift my hips, restless. My scrotum is gathering to wrinkles. I want to jack off. Just solo, with no expectations and no consequences. A nice leisurely wank without the weight of Penny’s need. But I feel guilty; she wouldn’t know, of course, but I’d still be letting her down. I stroke the long curve of flesh and feel the swell surge down to the head. Aw, hell. Now it really is a semi.

      ‘Richard! I’m off!’

      Wrapping the black towel about my hips, I exit the bathroom. In the hallway Penny is making last-minute adjustments to her make-up in front of the narrow wall mirror. ‘How do I look?’ she asks as I approach.

      She looks great. She always looks great. Even in her winter clothes she’s sexy: she’s wearing burning red lipstick and a trenchcoat number that just screams of 40s repression and daring, and patterned stockings under that. Well, they might be tights but I can’t help seeing them as stockings. I embrace her from behind, my cock pressing with incorrigible hope into her through layers of towel and clothing. ‘You look lovely.’

      Penny sighs slightly. ‘Save it for later, tiger. I’ve got a train to catch.’ It might be a weekend but she’s got an exhibition to attend and a stall to run.

      I’ll be quick, I want to tell her, but I know better than to argue. It would just upset her schedule. I content myself with a goodbye grope and kiss before seeing her off and locking the front door. Then I look in the mirror, shaking my head at myself with blokish sympathy. I can see the bulge Mr Dick is making under the towel.

      I need a wank. I mean I really need a wank. It makes me feel irritable and bold. I drop the towel on the laminate beech floorboards and strum my cock with slow, defiant strokes.

      You going to show up then, ghost-girl?

      Nothing stirs in the reflection behind me. Of course not. It’s broad daylight and I’m safe in my own home. I begin to stroke in earnest. God, this is good. My cock is growing stiff and straight and tall, pointing at the glass. My balls are bunching to a fat mass like a fist. I put my hand on the wall and rise up on my toes a little, enjoying the clench of muscles that seems to focus my whole body’s attention at my groin. My eyes are open but I’m not really seeing. Instead I picture Ruth, the grumpy clerical secretary at work. I imagine her walking around as we sit in a focus-group circle, circulating the handouts. She always wears her blonde hair in a chignon and a skirt that is tight on her big thighs: in my fantasy she’s wearing seamed stockings too. She gets to my place, walking inside the circle of chairs, and as she turns from me I stick my foot out and trip her up. Down she goes on her hands and knees, files scattered everywhere, her head ending up nearly in my lap. She’s so surprised she doesn’t even get angry; she just stares at me with her eyes wide and her mouth set in a luscious O. I take advantage of the moment to whip out my thick cock and stuff it between her lips, so deep that for a moment she chokes. I grab her hair and use it to pump her head up and down on my huge length, and after a moment’s resistance she crumbles and begins to suck obediently. Everyone else seated round the circle makes gasps of lecherous appreciation; it’s such a fine sight and we’ve all fantasised about what that big surly mouth could do if put to proper use. They’re getting out their own cocks too; they mean to follow my example and take their own turns once I’ve come. And I’m going to come right now. ‘Take it,’ I grunt, spurting into Ruth’s mouth, down her eager,