BODIES: Lilian LIVE!

Lilian Gash’s body is infectious, infected. As in highly contagious. It is only fair to add that she doesn’t show any visible symptoms to you when you fall for her, but I’d strongly advise you not to go anywhere near her. That’s if you can prevent yourself from being attracted to her. Lilian has skin as pale as cow’s milk, wispy hazel hair growing as far as her waist, a fragile body, little cusps for breasts. Her sexual allure festers on you, inside you, like a sored rash, a fungal bloom on rotting fruit, an itch, a blemish underneath your skin, at first, then she infects you. I say, Lilian’s body. I should say, Lilian’s body fluids: her saliva, her tears, her sweat, her urine, her blood when she’s on her period or cutting herself dicing fruit in the croft. She infects you unwittingly, out of innocence, without the faintest idea as to the fatal effect, her body is having on yours when she licks, or kisses, you, while she is making her unique style of passionate love to you, more often than not.

Lilian comes from a remote field, a lush verdant meadow, nestled in the shallow foothills of the dales above historic Gargrave in the white rose county. Her parents, Don and Flora, are buried there, victims of their daughter’s goodnight kiss when she was only adolescent. If you like to trek and walk, you will find her shady croft along the canal, over the stone bridge, past the lock, thru a five-bar gate, up the hill, along the rubble wall, at the furthest end of the grass and gravel track. If you prefer to search on foot, that is, for Lilian’s body. Most men prefer to study Lilian’s naked body online first, in the privacy of their bedroom, at night in the office, in the darkest recesses of social media. They chat with her intently about the field, its grazing sheep, her croft, her solar-heated haybarn, her body, her allure.

One such man is Douglas Moult, forty-five year old father of three small girls, married to Elisabeth for twenty-five years, fertile, built like an ox, farms sheep in the dales all week, plays rugby for the village team Saturday afternoons, drinks ale with ‘the boys’ after their match, or so he tells his barren wife. In truth, he visits ripe young women in search of sex.

Fortunately for him, this Saturday night is a dry, if cold, November night. The leafy mulch on the grass and gravel track is dry: there’ll be no traces, no tell-tale sediment stuck to the wheels of his off-road jeep when he gets home. Heeding Lilian’s map co-ordinates, aided by satnav, he drives in a careful, attentive, way using the car’s full-on headlights to beam his way forward, past dark clumps of fir trees, tall hawthorn hedges, until he reaches her croft. He parks well out-of-view even though the sky above is pitch black, cloud-covered, without moonlight, sits in the jeep with the heater switched to full, and waits for her sign.

The heavy oaken door, the only door to the croft, swings open, casting a swathe of light at his sweating face. Lilian, just eighteen, and still in her prime, appears in the doorway bearing a flashlight, wearing a thick woollen sweater, tracksuit bottoms, thick wool socks, hiking boots, and a lined thermal pompom beanie hat to keep her head warm. Doug shakes and shivers, cold sweat trickling down his cheeks. He switches off the heater, the ignition, zips his fur-lined anorak, and climbs out the jeep. She moves quickly, rushing to his side.

She shines the torch fully on his ruddy face, ‘Doug?’

He puffs out breath that freezes in the mist, ‘Yes.’

‘You have the cash?’

Lilian is always paid in cash, always an odd sum, her way of ensuring her vain attempt at personal safety. He nods his head stiffly. His neck is aching. His eyes are tired from the constant strain of watching for deer, straying out in front of his jeep on dark country roads.

‘How much?’

His face is freezing hard in the autumn frost. He wants to go inside, ‘Three hundred and fifty one pounds, as agreed. Can we go inside, please? I’m in a bit of a hurry, what with Liz waiting for me. I’m taking her out to see play in Leeds. Have to clean myself up first.’

‘You can shower in the barn, take a hot bath if you like.’

He sounds surprised, ‘Can I?’

She smiles kindly at him to put him at his ease, ‘All part of the service. Give me the cash.’

He pulls off his right-hand, fur-lined driving glove, and reaches inside his anorak, drawing out seventeen crisp twenty pound notes, a ten pound note, and a coin. She takes the money in her blue-cold hands, counts the cash then stuffs it in her tracksuit bottom pockets. She rubs her hands briskly, restoring the warmth, her circulation, her body’s blood, her fluids.

Lilian gently strokes his frozen stubbled face. She thanks him for the payment.

‘Come with me,’ she murmurs, suggestively, ‘I’ll warm you up.’

He follows her up the short flagstone path that leads to the haybarn, watching her greedily as she shoves aside the heavy oaken door, and guides him inside. She flicks six switches, slams the door behind them, he enters her forbidden paradise. Overhead, the arched roof resembles a church nave, its mossy thatch supported by solid wooden beams. The walls are traditional wattle and daub broken into segments by gnarled oak struts. The man’s jaw falls open at the plasma screens hanging on the walls: the garish videos of couples having sex. At the far end of the haybarn stands an antique dresser crowded with smoked glass bottles, crystal glass tumblers, miniatures of branded mixers: tonic and soda waters, bitter lemon, diet ginger ale. At the heart of their love nest, lies a manger filled with hay, a bath on clawed brassy feet with towels, and a transparent glass cubicle beneath a showerhead. Even for the embarrassing, if Liz accesses his bank statement, sum of three hundred and fifty one pounds, Lilian’s exclusive offering exceeds his wildest dreams. She nudges him gently in the ribs, then she leads her client across the ankle-hugging rugs as far as the bar.

‘Enjoy an aperitif with me.’

Lilian has just issued him with an instruction: this isn’t an invitation he can politely refuse. He relaxes, stops glancing at his silver digital wristwatch to check the time: Liz will have to wait. The girl unscrews the black tin cap on a smoky black bottle, and pours him a half a glass. She hands it to her man to savour. He sniffs it like a feral wolf sniffing dead meat.

‘Smells of ginger, pungent, spicy, warm,’ he observes, ‘something sweet. Is it vanilla?’

She nods, smiling for him, ‘You’ve got a good nose, Doug. It is ginger mixed with vanilla, plus a few secret aphrodisiacs of my own.’

He stares at her, all excited, wide-eyed with lustful expectation, sex need, ‘Aphrodisiacs?’

‘Mm, want you, want you to perform for me, want you to last, make me come. Drink up.’

Flattered stupid, he takes a small sip, ‘This is very strong, can I have some tonic, please?’

She tops his glass up without saying another word. Lilian doesn’t drink, doesn’t need to.

The cocktail leaves her man light-headed, infatuated with her, incapable of resisting her. She tells him to undress. He obeys her, her willing pet poodle, her nodding dog. Once he is naked, she lays him in the manger, as if he is her baby: she lays him in her manger and.

He lies back in the warm hay and enjoys her cabaret act. Soothing sensual music, Bolero, is playing in the background. Warm air vents, set high in the ceiling, pump out hot air: he feels great, comfortable, fully at ease – the wife, Liz a hundred miles from here, expectant.

Lilian takes off her thermal pompom beanie hat, and shakes out her hazel hair. She pulls the sweater off over her head, revealing her blood red lace bra. Her tracksuit bottoms, she lets fall as far as her ankles, tempting her man with her blood red open-crotch panties, her blood red suspender belt, her sheer black stockings, her incongruous, thick woollen socks.

‘Think I should take my boots off, don’t you? Or would you rather I left them on for you?’

Her lover gawps at her, dumbfounded and amazed, stuttering at her, ‘T-take them off.’

She sits on the raised rim of the manger, unties and pulls off her buff leather hiking boots, tugs off her socks, arranging them neatly, socks-stuffed-inside-boots on the plush red rug. Her man gulps hungrily as she unclips and steadily rolls down each stocking, then strips off her soft suspender belt, showing off the thin gold chain tied around her midriff for his titillation, his stimulation. Lilian rips off her open-crotch panties, readying herself for sex.

The slut lies with him in the hay: they kiss and hug, she lies back, craving him, in the hay.

‘Climb on top of me, fuck me.’

He doesn’t hesitate to fuck her. She’s so lubricious: he slides inside her easily. He thrusts, hard, bearing down on her with all his manly might, crushing her little breasts. Aroused, she bites his shoulder, drawing blood. She licks his muscly arm with her infected tongue. She screams and cries and begs, for more thrust, deeper penetration, she sighs, and comes.

He slumps, dead meat, on top of her. She pushes his body off her, stands and gets dressed.

Douglas Moult is the thirteenth man to die in this way, having sex with her, in her manger.

She begins to wonder if their spectacular coital deaths might be her fault.

Lilian Gash’s body is infectious, infected, highly contagious. Sadly, she doesn’t know it.

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