Ugly Duckling by Damien Seaman
Fifteen minutes before closing, the bell announced more customers. I was draining the last haddock fillets, paying attention to the hot fat. Then I looked up.
Two guys stood there, plastic bags on their heads, the bright logos on the bags clashing with the blue-and-white walls in Greek Nick’s chip shop. The bags didn’t have any air holes.
The closest guy carried a rusted metal pipe. His knuckles were bone white with whatever had fired him up enough to make him forget to put breathing holes in his makeshift disguise. I didn’t know whether to laugh or shout for help. Greek Nick wasn’t due back for twenty minutes and there was no one else about. Not that I could see.
“Money,” the pipe guy said. “Give us all your money.”
I recognized the voice. Belonged to Andy Dignam, a guy in my English lit class. One of the slackers teachers pick on to read the female parts in Shakespeare, so it was a voice I knew well.
I fumbled with opening the till, got a whine of rejection from pushing the wrong button, the pipe hovering at the edge of my vision. The tray creaked open, relief surging through me. Andy pushed me away.
“Lie down,” he said. “Face the floor.”
I pressed my nose to the dust, noticed some stray coppers that had rolled under the counter. Andy’s trainers were a spotless white, like he’d bought them that day.
The other guy spoke up. “Andy, I can’t breathe.”
“Shut up,” Andy hissed. “Get over here.”
“Andy, I can’t fucking breathe!”
“Air holes,” I said. “Put some air holes in the plastic.”
The pipe scratched the back of my neck. I didn’t move, didn’t say another word.
“Yeah,” Andy said, “not so fucking clever now, are ya?” I closed my eyes. “Hold him,” he said. So soft I could have imagined it.
One of them pinned my arms behind my back. A rustling noise made me open my eyes to see one of the bags drop over my head. It was damp inside, stank of mint and boozesweat.
The plastic hugged my face, sticking to every exposed surface. The other guy’s sweat was in my eyes and mouth, his panic condensed, seeping into my pores, panicking me.
I exhaled. The bag puffed out a little. My brain screamed for more air and I started to gulp it, only there wasn’t enough and the plastic shrank tighter around my head.
You bet I struggled right then, but I still couldn’t move my arms.
My head exploded with pain. Andy had used the pipe on me. Now that he had, some of the fear went away. I opened my mouth to laugh, got another dose.
I gagged. Might have thrown up. From there on it gets fuzzy.
***
TEN SECRETS OF AN EARTH-SHAKING ORGASM, the magazine had promised. I looked over the top of it. An old woman frowned at me, or at the magazine.
Roleplay had featured a lot, along with “taking control”. Hit a nerve, that one did. “Don’t wait for him, girls. Take the initiative and take control.”
I wished it was so easy for me, as the seniors dotted around the waiting room coughed at each other and avoided touching the magazines for fear of catching something off them. While I waited for my mum to finish talking to the doctor. Hoping this was the last set of tests, the last vial of blood I’d have to give. Hoping he could explain the black outs and the panic attacks.
The doctor’s door opened and mum emerged. She took my hand, something she hadn’t done in years. Embarrassed, I pulled away. The look on her face made me put my hand back. We left the surgery, got in the car.
Not a word passed between us, but once on the drive home I looked over. Her face was covered with tears.
***
Thinking of Rachel, a girl in the year below me at school. Nice hair, and yes, a nice pair. My main wank fantasy.
Only it was going wrong, my dick wilting in my hand.
Morning glory, whatever, didn’t matter. Couldn’t keep it up when I thought of her. Wasn’t Rachel’s fault, of course. Shit, she’d barely even known me except to say hello to on the school bus and I hadn’t seen her at all in nearly six months.
But she was there the day I passed out before my history exam, saw me do it, so I’d got six months of interrupted wanking. How’s that for trauma?
It was time to initiate, to take control.
I went downstairs, found mum’s stash of shopping bags and took one back to my room. Got into bed, fantasized about Rachel sucking me off. When I got hard again I slipped the bag over my head and held it there with my left hand.
Sweat gathered at my hairline, dribbled down my cheeks. My breath came in short, shallow bursts as I pumped away at my dick. In my mind I’d moved on to missionary, Rachel’s tight vagina instead of my sweaty hand.
The bag caressed my face: my own biosphere, my own little world, where I decided whether I lived or died. I twisted the plastic round my neck, still masturbating, still imagining sex with Rachel. Bright lights crowded my vision though my eyes were closed, hot liquid surging through my dick.
Moved on to anal. A private sex show lit by flashing lights against a dark background.
The vision changing, to hot fat, cold vinyl flooring and a new pair of trainers, rusted metal on the back of my neck.
My dick erupted, shot out spunk so hot it burned.
***
Next time I saw Andy Dignam was a Friday afternoon, in the park. I was heading home from the supermarket with a couple of bags of groceries. He was sat on a bench under a dying oak tree, all alone.
Normally Andy ran with the pack, hanging outside Maccy Dees or in the park smoking weed and drinking cheap cider. And never so much as a look for me.
Yeah, that hurt.
No threats.
No warnings.
No need, right?
Like he knew there was no way I was gonna spill to the police. Or maybe he never realized I knew what he’d done.
A debate I’d had with myself for a long time.
Smelled like he was smoking skunk even though he was on his own. And there I was, just become master of my own destiny. I went up to him.
“Andy mate, got a light?”
He looked puzzled then passed me his disposable lighter, not a shadow of suspicion on his face. I went through one of the bags, found my mum’s pack of Silk Cut and lit one of the ciggies. Passed the lighter back.
I sat on the other end of the bench to Andy, trying not to swallow any of the smoke I was making. The weather was grim, windy with the threat of rain. Weren’t many people out and about is what I’m saying.
“Where’s your mates?” I said.
Andy shrugged. “Seeing them at the Ship later. You coming down?”
Shit, did he even remember what he’d done? Being the nice guy to everyone, little me included. And only I knew what the fucker was capable of. Or maybe the only bloke in town who cared.
“Nasty weather,” I said.
“Helps me clear my head.”
When he looked away I emptied one of the bags onto the grass and said, “Bollocks,” like it’d been an accident.
He got to his knees and started to give me a hand, picking up groceries. I got behind him, slipped the empty bag over his head and pulled it taut.
His fingers scrabbled at the plastic. I put my foot between his shoulder blades and ground his shrouded face into the wet grass, muffling his cries for help. My weight kept him down and pushed the air out of his lungs. I pulled the bag tighter still, a hard on straining the crotch of my jeans. I was in control, master of his destiny as well as mine.
Making love to Rachel in my mind. She could see what I was doing, playing God with Andy Dignam, and it was bringing her to orgasm.
Andy kicked out. His trainers were the same ones he’d worn in Nick’s chippy. That little detail was all it took.
I came in my pants.
Andy stopped moving.
The inside of the bag was wet with Andy’s breath and his fear. Our bag now, forever connecting me to the guy who’d helped me realize my power. I put the groceries back and tried not to draw attention to myself on the way home.
Didn’t want anyone to notice the stain on my jeans, did I?
