‘Boris’ (Anna again, and a vision of her with her dainty hands on the beast’s belly, jolting up and down on that pink pole) ‘if we put the lights out will you come out?’
For a moment – the merest moment – a gulp of air – just long enough to fill his lungs! ‘Yes,’ he had gasped.
Then he’d heard the click of the light switch and felt Anna stand up, lifting her weight from his bed. ‘There, it’s out!’
It was out, as Boris discovered a moment later when, having struggled to free his head, he thrust it into darkness and breathed air deeply into his starved lungs – and almost gagged!
And at once, with more giggles from across the room, the light came on again.
Which of the girls it was, he couldn’t tell, but one of them had been standing beside his bed with her loose cassock thing over his head like a tent. The musty smell of her body had been beating into his face, and he had seen the dark V of her pubic patch dewed with a string of milky semen pearls. The light through her garment wasn’t good, but it was good enough for Boris to see, when she deliberately bowed her legs outward a little, what looked to him like the parting of that patch into a greedy vertical grin!
‘There!’ Boris had dimly remembered a husky voice saying, through a rising gale of coarse laughter. ‘And didn’t we tell you we had something to show you?’
But that was all that was said, for suddenly beside himself in a panic of loathing, that was when Boris had lashed out. Later he remembered little of it – only the giggles turning to screams, and the dull pain in his fists and skinned knuckles – but he did remember how, the next day, his tormentors had kept well away from him; and how both of them had sported blue bruises, while Anna had a split lip and Katrina a great black eye! Perhaps his aunt had been correct to liken him to a lettuce – in one direction. But as for tenacity and ferocity – Boris had lacked neither one.
That next day had been nightmarish. Exhausted after a night of wakefulness, barricaded in his room against all entreaty to come out, Boris had had to suffer his aunt’s wrath and (from a safe distance) the accusations of her oversexed daughters. Aunt Hildegard would not feed him, starving him for punishment, and she swore that she would complain to his father if he didn’t come to his senses at once. By that she meant that he should come out of his room and talk to her, apologise to the girls, and generally pretend that nothing had happened. He would have none of it, remaining in his room except for short and hurried excursions to the toilet and bathroom, determined that before nightfall he would flee the house and make his way back to Bucharest.
The only trouble with that scheme was that his father was bound to find out and would want to know why, and Boris would simply not be able to tell him. He’d never
been an easy man to talk to, and this – this had been simply unbelievable. And even then, assuming his step-father did believe and accepted all that had happened, mightn’t there still be doubts about Boris’s own – participation? His active, perhaps his willing participation . . .
There were other difficulties, too. Boris had no money and no arrangements had been made for him at the college. Which was why, when evening came around again and when his aunt’s threats turned to pleading, he had dragged his bed and dresser away from the door and allowed her to take him downstairs.
She was sorry, she said, that the girls had teased him so badly the night before, and that he’d been so alarmed. What they could possibly have done to offend him so -that he should have reacted so violently – was quite beyond her powers of understanding. But whatever, it was all over now and Boris should try to forget it. It could only cause trouble between herself and her brother if he learned of it – whatever it had been. Oh, yes, for he always blamed her for everything.