Chapter 42

Larry slices into something, chews, then says, “This is excellent. What am I eating here?”

James looks across to his plate. “Prune-stuffed pork. Regional speciality where I grew up, usually
made for special occasions.” Larry’s brows arch.

Under the table, I become aware of a hand on my thigh. Ryan appears to be listening to the
conversation, but ‘below stairs’ he eases between my knees, pushing them apart. Very quietly, he
murmurs, “Open up.”

James and Larry are still talking. “Where was that? That you grew up, I mean?”

“Spain.”

“Really? What part?”

“Valencia Province. You know it?”

“Not well. I've visited Valencia city, but I didn't get further afield than that. So, you're Spanish?”

“My mother was Spanish. My father English.”

Ryan eases a finger down and in, tracing a line over my skin that makes my pussy warm and twitch. He
speaks without moving his lips. “Wider.”

I’m trying to chew my food, but it’s not easy. Finger and thumb pluck at my panties. “Off.”

“Ryan…” My voice is a hiss.

“Off, I said.”



All eyes are on James and Larry. Nonetheless, I’m happy that, my face made-up, my flush is concealed
as I raise myself from my seat just enough for Ryan to hook fingers into my panties and tug down.
“Finish the job,” he murmurs. “Take them off and give them to me.”

Christ…

I glance around the table, everyone talking to everyone else…

“Oh!” I drop my fork, then, pasting on a sheepish smile, duck under the table to ‘retrieve it’. In the five
seconds I have to work with, I slide the panties down and over my ankles, pressing them into Ryan’s
waiting hand, snatch up the fork and return to the upper world, wearing my best princess smile.

“Clean fork, Kirstie?” James is already half-standing from his seat.

“No, it’s fine.” I wipe it down on my napkin.

“Good girl.” Again, Ryan’s lips don’t move. But his hand does, pushing between my thighs.

It is astonishingly difficult to chew turkey while having your pussy stroked.

*****

Beth shifts uneasily in her seat. Richard murmurs something quiet to her, and she nods, grimacing.
Then, “Can you excuse me, please. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Charlotte pipes up. “Bladder?”

Beth blushes. “Um, yes, actually.”

Charlotte sets down her knife and fork. “I’ll come with you if you like. Give you a hand. I know what it’s
like when you’re that size and you’re trying to manage with your dress and everything.”



Beth gives her a grateful smile as Richard stands, sliding her chair out as she heaves herself upright.
But Charlotte is struggling herself to get up from her seat and Mitch rises too. “I think you both still need
help in that area,” she says.

I could do with a comfort break myself, but with Ryan’s finger working spirals between my pussy lips,
I’m conscious of the dampness under me…

Black dress, not red…

Hmmm…

As the three women exit, Ryan taps me on the shoulder. “Kirstie, why do women go to the toilet in
groups?”

I turn an austere expression on him…

Michael pipes up. “Actually, I’ve always wondered that too…” James and Richard nod agreement.

“We do it,” I say, “Because it is an ideal opportunity to compare notes about men.”

Michael plucks at his lip. “I had to ask…”

As the footsteps recede down the hall, James cocks his head, listening, then stands and clicks the door
open. A tide of dogs flows into the room, tails wagging, noses raised towards table level, or in Emma’s
case, above table level, giving her a direct line of sight on the turkey.

James whips off his pirate hat, then snatching up a pig-in-blanket, he smears bacon fat all along the
length of the paper. He snaps his fingers under the table, waving the greasy paper. “Hey, Scruffy. Here,
Scruffy.” Michael’s rat-faced mongrel streaks across the floor, snatches at the hat then speeds away
with it, trailing oily tissue behind him.



The rest of the dogs follow him in a cloud of hair and outrage, but Ryan, Michael, Richard and Larry
exchange inspired glances, snatching off their own hats. Michael wipes his down with a bit of turkey
skin, then clicking fingers and tongue. “Archie. C’mon Archie.”

The Gang return like the Four Horsemen learning they are late for the Apocalypse. Meg, in her best
rendition of the role of Famine, sits at Richard’s feet, raising limpid brown eyes to him, then as she is
presented with turkey-flavoured tissue, descends on it like a wolf ravening from the winter mountains.

Meg gets the remains of Ryan’s paper crown to herself and makes away, trailing purple tissue behind
her, like one of those show gymnasts, trailing coloured ribbons as they prance around the ring making
the rest of us feel inadequate.

Larry uses a sausage to anoint his hat, then waves the tattered crown under the table. He speaks
softly. “Blackie…”

The big black newcomer hesitates, then delicately, accepts the sausagey paper from his hand. Larry
blinks rapidly, his head tilted.

Beside me, Ryan says quietly, “If you breathe a word…”

“My lips are sealed.”

Beth waddles back in, surveying a scene of flying confetti and grease-ridden streamers draped over the
hearth. Mitch follows her in. Then Charlotte.

“What happened…” Her eyes narrow… “… to your hats?”

“Sorry, Charlotte,” says Michael, in a voice of syrup and honey. “Dropped mine. The dogs went mad for
it.”



That's not actually a lie...

... as such...

“Mine too.”

“And mine.”

The men sit in reinforced brotherhood, faces all carefully crafted blanks.

Charlotte's eyes slit as Mac’s tongue winds around a trailing shred of purple, sucking it back into his
mouth. Then she smiles brightly. “Oh, that’s alright. It doesn't matter. We've got Kirstie's party pack.”
Beaming, she unwraps five sets of reindeer antlers, winking at me as her back turns to the men.

“Plenty for everyone,” I say. “I wasn’t sure how many would be here so there’s enough for tweIve.” But I
keep my face rigidly straight.

*****


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