Wildwood Read Online Free

the sporting darling of the parish and was the lad to whom I’d eagerly surrendered my virginity in the bowling alley at the back of the pub. Nowadays, big, blond and beefy, he looked exactly like what he was: a county cricketer. We’d parted badly, and he’s always been a bit snide whenever I’ve met him since.
    Simon had cornered me as I was going with Miranda to the toilets. As we turned into the downstairs corridor we found Simon there, lounging against an occasional table with a drink in his hand.
    ‘Avril!’ he said brightly. His face was ruddy from the spirits and his bow tie hung loose around his neck. ‘Nice dress.’
    I stopped. It was a nice dress, now that I’d taken the jacket off . It had spaghetti straps at the shoulder and was made of soft, rather clingy cotton. ‘Thanks.’
    ‘’Scuse,’ Miranda said, making a bolt for the ladies’.
    ‘Didn’t think you’d be in dress,’ he continued. ‘Thought it’d be dungarees or something. For, you know, your gardening.’
    ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Well, some of us are advanced enough to have a change of clothes, Simon. And I even washed my hands after work.’
    He put his hand on my waist. I should have pulled away right then but I’d had enough alcohol to take the edge off my caution. And it wasn’t as if I really disliked Simon after all those years, or as though he were physically unattractive. ‘Nice dress,’ he repeated, looking down my front. ‘But looks as if you’re a little cold.’
    He was referring to the way my nipples were sticking out through the fabric, hard little points of fuchsia pink. I wasn’t wearing a bra. I giggled.
    ‘Remember that time,’ he said, dropping his voice to a murmur, ‘we went out in the snow looking for squirrels?’
    I did, and my body did too, my flesh warming instantly to the memory, which was why I didn’t stop him when he put his hand to my left breast and brushed the nipple very gently with his fingertips. My skin tightened, shivering.
    We’d gone out across his father’s fields from spinney to spinney, looking for squirrels on the pretext that they ate pheasant eggs and chicks. Simon had carried an air rifle. At the time I had no particular grudge against grey squirrels and didn’t match his eagerness for the hunt – they weren’t my pheasants – although ironically nowadays I know the damage they can do stripping tree bark and I’m far less sentimental. I remember the spots of blood bright against the snow under the bare black trees, like the start of a fairy tale:
Skin as white as snow
… I remember how Simon had laughed at the disgusted faces I’d pulled when he flipped over the little corpses with his toe. I’d got so grumpy that he’d broken off, still laughing, and backed me against a sycamore sapling to kiss me into a better mood. As I melted into compliance he’d slipped out of my embrace and round the back of the tree, drawing my arms out behind me. I didn’t struggle as he lashed my wrists with his leather belt, pinning me to the tree, though I’d laughed and scolded him. When he’d finished trussing me he’d returned to face me and slowly unzipped my coat.
    ‘Simon!’ I’d yelped, but he’d ignored my protests and peeled open my fleece liner and my cardigan and finally, button by button, the blouse beneath to reveal my bra. It was a still day, but it was the middle of winter and there’d been an inch of snow on the ground. ‘Simon, it’s cold!’ I’d protested, wriggling against my bonds but weak with laughter.
    ‘So I see.’ He’d eased my breasts gently from their lacy cups, exposing them to the chill air. My nipples were as hard and cold as bullets, but they’d radiated fire through my body as he pinched them. ‘Bet I can get them colder, though.’
    He’d bent to scoop some snow and I’d realised then how exposed I was. The farm was private land and there shouldn’t have been anybody wandering around, but the spinney provided no cover from prying eyes