The Girl at the Bus-Stop Read Online Free Page A

his squeals of delight could be heard, and the narrator explained that Miss Ingrid was now defecating on Chuck’s face as he lay on the bathroom floor masturbating.
     
    The final ‘star’ of the documentary was Kitty, a forty year old bank clerk. She saved a large portion of her modest salary for a special treat once a month. She would travel to the luxurious home of a young couple and pay them to scream abuse at her, as she cleaned their house naked. If she failed to meet their exacting standards of domestic cleanliness she was soundly spanked. Her initial shrieks of protest quickly gave way to moans of orgasm, as the couple took it in turns to slap her buttocks.
     
    Rudge started to nod off, and soon entered the twilight world between hearing someone talking on the television and sleep kicking in. Momentarily he thought he was kneeling alongside Kitty, helping her to scrub the couple’s patio with a toothbrush. When the programme’s credits had finished rolling, the adverts came on at a greatly increased volume and jarred Rudge back into the land of the living.
     
    After finishing the last of the Malibu, Rudge felt incredibly thirsty and staggered through to the kitchen. He made himself some tea, and retrieved a crumpled packet of cigarettes from his trouser pocket. His wife had banned smoking inside the house on the day she’d given up the habit, so Rudge stepped outside and found sanctuary inside the shed, which had doubled as his study for years. He booted-up his laptop and lit a cigarette, sucking gratefully on the tip as if his life depended on it.
     
    H alf-heartedly Rudge tried to tidy up the a chapter of Wife on Mars , but in his intoxicated state he couldn’t concentrate. As he read his Martian character’s broken English dialogue back to himself, it sounded decidedly Geordie. In frustration he added ‘bonnie lass’ to the end of each sentence, before abandoning it and closing the file.
     
    His stretched out in his chair, and his foot pushed against something on the floor underneath the flimsy wallpaper table he used as a desk. He reached down and picked up a dusty unopened bottle of something. The grubby hand-written label informed that it was homemade raspberry wine, and he vaguely remembered a neighbour bringing it along to a barbecue. That   was back in the days when Rudge and his wife hosted such social gatherings, many years ago.
     
    He searched around the shed for a suitable substitute for a corkscrew, settling for a blunt chisel from his little-used toolbox. He pushed the cork right down into the bottle and poured out some of the wine into his empty tea mug. After testing it with a gentle sip, he took a large gulp before refilling the mug. Within ten minutes the bottle was back on the floor, only this time it was empty. Rudge had lit-up another cigarette and was typing frantically on his laptop keyboard singing Babylon Zoo’s old hit, Spaceman .
     
    ‘I can't get off the carousel, I can't get off the carousel,’ he wailed in a high pitched shriek, ‘I can't get off the carousel, because I’m pissed, and it won’t fucking stop.’

     
    The next morning Rudge awoke naked on the hall carpet, feeling very cold. His body ached as if he’d been in a cross-country camel race, and had to use the bannister for support to haul himself to his feet. He lifted the large brown envelope he’d been using as a pillow, and noticed the pre-paid printed Royal Mail postage label stuck in the top right corner. He dropped it on to the hall stand, and stepped over his discarded clothing. He followed the trail of garments through to the kitchen and out of the back door, which was wide open.
     
    Still naked, he retrieved his underpants from the weed-infested patio, and bent down to pick up his toothbrush which was lying next to a bucket of dirty grey water. The woman in the first floor flat backing-on to Rudge’s property gawped down at him from her kitchen window, and he darted back into the