Buying the Virgin

CHARLOTTE

The dead of night:

Under heaps of bedcovers, our bedroom lit by the single candle we keep burning through the night, and the remains of the embers, glowing in the hearth, I lie, loosely entwined with Michael. I can’t sleep at all, fretful with worry, and I simply rest there, watching his beautiful face.

In the dim, golden light, his features are a pattern of light and shade, finely formed; the defined line of his mouth set against a pale stubble where he’s not had a chance to shave. My pussy is a little sore from that, but I’ll not say such a thing to him. And his beautiful blond hair contrasts with oddly dark lashes, which, eyes open, frame their fantastic blue, but now, on his sleeping face, give him an oddly childlike look.

Never would I watch him like this waking. But now, free to gaze, I take simple pleasure in the beauty of my Golden Lover.

Outside there is a small noise, a splintering sound, as of breaking glass. Michael’s eyes snap open, locking with mine.

He raises a finger to his mouth, pressing it against his lips, as he reaches under the bed, and pulls out his long-handled wood axe. He stands, naked, his breath a steam cloud, as he positions himself behind the door.

Holding the axe in one hand, he points to me, and thumbs me out of the bed, then points to the bolster and waves a finger pointing down the length of the bed. Moving as quickly and quietly as I can, I rise, push the bolster lengthwise under the blankets to resemble a human body and riffle the sheets over the top, so that it’s not too obvious there is no head on the pillow. Then, as quickly as I can, I slip on the warmest clothes I have to hand, plus my steel-capped work boots, and gather Michael’s clothes together, ready to pass to him.

There is a creak outside the door.

Michael stands, poised, the axe held with both hands supporting it, ready to swing at whatever comes through the door. I’ve seen Michael wield that axe, splitting wood. And our Christmas tree of earlier today barely resisted his blows. He knows how to use it.

I stand well behind him, keeping out of range of the blade.

The door opens slowly, grating on ancient hinges. From our vantage point, out of sight of the intruder, all we see is the silhouette of a handgun.

As the gun, and the hand holding it, come into clear view, Michael brings the axe down, at the last-minute twisting it so that, not the edge, but the butt of the head contacts the hand.

I’m not sure this is an improvement for the owner of the hand. There is a scream. The gun fires and the bolster and blankets jump under the impact of the bullet. The hand itself is not severed, but surely every bone is smashed. The gun drops to the ground and I snatch it up. For good measure, Michael brings the flat of the axe head against the gun owner’s screaming head, and he falls silent.

“Come on,” he says urgently. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

“You can’t go out like that; stark naked into two feet of snow.”

“You’re right.” He grabs his boots, shoving his feet in, stuffing the laces inside for speed. “Bring those clothes.”

He’ll fuckin’ freeze….

“Where do we go?”

It’s not far, but they won’t find it in the dark

are there

up before I came home, At the last moment, I remember a couple of chocolate bars that are in a bedside drawer, stuffing them

night. But as we leave through the back door, there are voices

woodshed.”

pick up

had the axe under the

ready for them. You thought they might come

attention, I would

corner and there is snow on the ground. There is only a cheese rind of a moon, but with the snow, reflecting shades of

“Which way?”

the trees,

the darkness,

How many are there?

If they find our

naked torso, and he clutches it one-handedly at his neck,

think, but I can’t make out their words, then, there, right behind me, the sound of footsteps

to the ground, hearing the whoosh of the axe swinging above me, a soft and silken sound that cuts through the air and ends in a shriek, as the axe connects, flat-headed, with something above

scream as a body drops behind me, and I jump on it, pressing my hand over the crushed and splintered remains of a face, which tries to scream at me all the while I struggle

the face has a tie, so I unknot it and stuff it into the mouth, then pick up the gun which dropped into the snow

body behind us, Michael and I run

Michael can finally pull on his clothes. He is badly chilled, and takes a minute or so to stamp the heat back into his legs, beating his

very dark in here, and I can only just make out the white of his eyes as he says, “Well done,

with the flat of the axe.

kept your head well, gagging him like that. If he’s lucky, he might freeze first, instead

I’ll save the hysterical breakdown for later, when