Little Fishcake Belly 1


She legged it over the gate into the railway yard and he followed her. Under a leaden sky they ran. She didn’t look back as she skipped between wagons, running her hands along their chassis, through grease and grime. As he caught up with her and grabbed at her waist, she turned and pushed her hand into his face. She smushed the smut into his cheeks and forced his mouth on hers, a tang of vinegar on her lips, her tongue still salty.

“Not here,” she gasped. Her eyes darted furtively around as her blackened hands snatched at his shirt collar. She led him into the coal black shadow in the lee of the old loco shed, leaving a trail of shirt buttons. He gripped her tight. Coal, iron, oil, skin. Bit into her shoulder. Drew her hair into one length and wound it into his fist. Snapped her head back, their eyes locked, her panting mouth breathing close into his.

He unfastened the button at the nape of her neck, pulled the dress from her left shoulder, then her right, and made her bare to the waist.

She flung her arms around his neck and hoisted herself onto the stack of railway sleepers behind her, where he laid her down, white skin on black wood, and flung her skirt and petticoat up. With her legs slung over his shoulders, her little fishcake belly trembled to each shunt he gave.

“I’ll not be yours,” she said, “unless you take me.”

Their eyes hard upon each other, he pushed all the more. She raised herself up, curled a hand around the back of his neck and drew his mouth to hers. He made to kiss her, but she bit his lip and pulled at it. He could taste his blood.

“Bang me harder. Deeper!  Stretch me and make it hurt!” she said. “When I beg you to stop, keep going. If I cry, push harder. Force yourself into me.”

He studied the intensity in her eyes. Looking for a way to keep going, but he was losing it. Was she fantasising or expecting this? He stopped, still gripped between her legs.

She propped herself up on her elbows. “What’s wrong?”

“This isn’t right,” he muttered. He withdrew himself. Let her legs down. Fastened whatever buttons he still had.

“What have I done now?” She sounded hurt and confused.

“Is that what you really want?” He tucked his coal smeared shirt into his waist. “I can’t do that.”

“You’re not man enough?” There was no taunt in her words, and it threw him a little. He studied her face as she sat up bare chested, her black fingers wiping at her damp inner thighs, leaving black smutty streaks.

He felt a fat raindrop on the back of his neck and turned his attention to the sky. “We ought to get going,” he said. “There’s the smell of a storm in the air.”


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