Gooseberry

It was late; 03:51 according to the luminescence of the DVD player.

Having tidied away the worst of the dinner party detritus, Damien was splayed out on the sofa, finishing off the cognac, when a muffled ‘Ride Of The Valkyries’ began playing from behind one of the cushions.
He immediately recognized Marcus’s mobile ringtone. It had blasted out and interrupted the conversation several times during the evening.
Every call, according to Marcus, had been “important business”.
Marcus worked in his daddy’s successful financial advisory company. Who the fuck in that game did important financial business late on a Saturday night?
‘Ride Of The Valkyries’ was typically Marcus, Damien mused. He’d know it from Apocalypse Now, but the philistine would never have heard of Wagner.
He’d think Wagner was a fucking restaurant!
Damien considered letting it ring on. He was quite fond of ‘Valkyries’ himself. But 10 seconds in, the music looped back to the beginning. Sacrilege!
He leaned forward to set down his glass on the coffee table, spilling some in the process. He fished the phone out from under the cushion and held it vibrating in his palm.
It wasn’t one of those discreet, slimline types. There was never anything discreet about Marcus. Or slimline.
It was undoubtedly expensive, certainly much more so than Damien’s own ‘brick’ (as Marcus had once mockingly described his reliable old Nokia). Black and about the size of a remote control, it had a full keyboard. Even so, the screen took up half the handset.
It was one of those... BlueBerrys.
No, BlackBerry. That was what they were called.
A cheesy picture of Marcus and Sarah wearing paper party hats flashed on and off. Underneath, the incoming caller was identified as ‘Home’.
Damien wondered what kind of wanker would use his own picture as their incoming call alert. But only for a second or two.
He knew Marcus.
Marcus was definitely that kind of wanker.
Spoiled little rich kid who’d never worked for anything in his pampered life.
He’d never understood why Sarah had married him. He’d only ever known her as Marcus’s wife, but she definitely struck Damien as being well out of his league.
The music looped again.
He examined the keyboard. The music had looped a third time before he found the answer key. He pressed it and drew a deep breath before answering.

“Hello?”
He said it like a question, though he already knew who was calling – and why.
“Oh, thank fuck!” Marcus exclaimed. “Thought I’d left it in the cab.”
“Welsh, itch sheer,” Damien assured him, oblivious to the slur in his voice.
“Well, obviously!” Marcus laughed.
Damien pulled a face. It wasn’t his fault the poncey prick had forgotten his poncey prick phone.
Still, he said nothing.
“We’d a fuckin’ nigger driver,” Marcus said. “Nigerian, I reckon. No bloody chance of getting it back if a Nigerian gets their thieving hands on it.”
Damien winced, but didn’t rise to the bait.
“Welsh, itch sheer,” he repeated, noticing the slur this time. He took a couple of seconds to carefully compose and enunciate his next sentence: “Would – you – like – me... to drop it round tomorrow?”
“Nah, need it for the morning. Expecting some important calls. I’ll be there in about 20 minutes.”
With that, Marcus hung up.
Tosspot!
“Expecting some important calls.” On a Sunday morning! On a fucking bank holiday weekend!!
Tosspot!!!
Damien shook his head in irritation. This was typical Marcus bullshit. No consideration for anyone else.
It would take him longer than 20 minutes. It was always hard to get cabs in the city on a Saturday night, no matter what the hour. They’d waited ages for the one that had brought Marcus and Sarah home earlier.
According to the mobile’s illuminated screen, it was now 03:54.
Marcus would be at least half an hour. Probably more.
Not that Damien was in any particular rush to bed. Fiona would hopefully already be asleep, but she’d been in odd form all evening.
He’d no idea why. Dinner had been drunken (at least for him), but pleasant enough. Then again, she was always strangely subdued when she was around Marcus and Sarah these days.
Damien had recently made the fatal mistake of mentioning how attractive Sarah was. Fiona was probably jealous. At 34, she was getting insecure about her looks.
He reached for the cognac. He took a long drink, emptying the glass. He shuddered as the alcohol rippled through his system.
He’d be hungover tomorrow, that was for sure.
Lying back, he made a closer examination of the phone. Despite the plethora of keys, it actually wasn’t hard to figure out how it worked. He hit Menu.
Maybe there were some good games...
The display was almost exactly the same as the one on Damien’s brick.
He went into Messaging and took a peek in Marcus’s inbox. The most recent text was from Fiona: “Dins @ 8. Brng wine! Xxx”
He scrolled down through the texts. Interspersed between Sky rugby results and stock market reports were messages from people with names like Reggie, Myles and Smithy.
He read a few. They were uniformly inane.
This one from someone named Rocky: “Story? Gr8t rslt 2day, yeh!! C u @ stags @ 7pm. Tell reg & smithy. Ciao!”
What a wild and crazy life Marcus led...
His outbox revealed that he was a man of few words – at least, when it came to spelling them out. Most of his texts said little more than “Cool”, “Yeah” or “Ok”. To Fiona’s dinner instructions, he had replied “Ok cool! C u! X”.
Damien returned to the Menu, suddenly feeling a pang of guilt about his inbox intrusion. He put the phone down and, deciding he might as well have another drink, heaved himself up off the couch.
He staggered out to the kitchen and took the last bottle of Heineken from the fridge. It was now 04:05, according to the cooker.
Marcus would be a while yet. Arsehole.
He went back to the couch and dropped into it so heavily that beer fizzled from the top of the bottle and covered his hand in foam. He wiped it on his leg and took a swig. The cold beer helped to kill the acidy taste of the brandy.
He sat there for a while, humming the intro to ‘Ride Of The Valkyries’, his mind rattling from one inconsequential thought to another.
Belching softly, he picked up the phone again and reexamined it.
Actually, it was quite a nice model.
He liked the way it looked in his hand.
Maybe he’d get one himself. Ditch the brick.
He touched a key and the screen lit up. He held it to his face, marvelling at the madness of modern technology. It was like something from Star Trek. Better even. Kirk and Spock had never used anything this snazzy.
Wondering what other features it had he went back to Menu. He saw it had email. Impressive.
He flicked around a little. It even had 3-D chess, though he very much doubted that Marcus could play it.
He went into Imaging. Of course it had a camera but, then, so did every phone these days. He pressed on, into Picture Gallery.
There weren’t many photographs. Six. He could see where they stopped on the screen.
The top one was labeled ‘Sar-xxx’.
Damien blinked twice and opened it.
Then he gasped, and blinked some more.
He couldn’t believe what he was looking at. Several blinks later, though, the image remained the same.
It was Sarah – xxx.
She was smiling wickedly, her eyes gleaming.
She was also holding fully erect penises up to either side of her mouth.
Damien’s jaw dropped. The phone almost followed.
He couldn’t take his eyes off the screen. His crotch began to bulge, dislodging the Heineken bottle nestling there. Without looking, he fumbled awkwardly to straighten it.
Sarah was smiling... at him, it seemed.
“Jesus...” he breathed. “Sarah... ”
His crotch ached with heat and he felt a little light-headed.
His thumb got busy.
All six images were of her... lying back on a bed with her legs wide open (she was shaved)... on all fours with her back to the camera... sucking on someone’s cock (Marcus? Rocky? Myles?)... dripping semen from her mouth... pushing her breasts up to her face.
Damien laughed, delightedly.
This was truly unbelievable! Un-fucking-believable!
The same Sarah who had spent most of dinner bitching about Bush, Blair and Big Brother had somebody’s... semen... dripping from her mouth.
The same Sarah who once took exception to Damien’s use of the word ‘cunt’ was holding two penises! Two! A flash of paranoia hit him that they seemed far bigger than his own.
Damien was gobsmacked. He’d never have guessed. Despite her fabulous looks, he’d always thought her a bit prim and conservative. Sure, Marcus came over all pervy, but how often was that a lot of bluff and bluster? Damien would never in a million years have suspected that Sarah would do something like this. Ever.
The dirty bitch! He liked her a lot more already.
He checked the dates of the pictures.
They had only been taken last night.
Damien hadn’t been this sexually excited in years. His ears started to hum and his vision blurred. He realized he was rock hard.
Pulling down his zip, he grabbed out his aching cock without removing his eyes from the screen.
Flicking swiftly through the images, he settled on Sarxx69 – the one of her on all fours – and placed it on the cushion. He spat into his hand, and began to stroke himself.
This wasn’t the first time Damien had jerked off to an image of Sarah on all fours.
But now he had an actual image, the real thing rather than just a fantasy.
She had a wonderful ass. Tight and round.
Better than he’d ever imagined.
It didn’t take long. He fell back and actually cried out when he came.
“AAAAHHHHHHH...”
It was the most intense orgasm he’d ever experienced. He ejaculated so violently that his spunk literally arced up before his eyes like a comet and splashed the brandy glass on the coffee table.
He lay there for a moment, until he became aware of the spilled Heineken soaking his leg. Worried that he might have woken Fiona, he pushed his guilty, throbbing penis back into his trousers, zipped up and tried to organize himself.
He looked over at the DVD. It was 04:20.
Marcus would be here soon.
He put the bottle on the table, and wiped his hands on his pants.
“Jesus Christ!” he said. Then he laughed aloud. This was insane!
Picking up the BlackBerry, he flicked through the images again. Maybe BlueBerry would be a better name after all, he mused, smiling to himself.
He felt less than half-spent, and his cock was still semi-erect. His mind raced. Imagine! Sarah with two guys (three, if somebody else was taking the picture).
Sarah... Sarah... Sarah...
He considered mailing the images to his brick, but realized it would show up on the record. Besides, they probably wouldn’t transfer properly.
Not that he was ever going to forget them.
He repeatedly flicked through them, up and down, down and up, mentally burning and downloading each image.
By 04:28, he was really tempted to masturbate again.
A realization struck. The phone had a video camera. There could be more.
He swiftly flicked into Video.
There was only one clip stored. It was titled ‘Sa&fi-xxx’.
His heart suddenly thumping, he hit the key and played the movie.
Within seconds, his world changed forever.
It was Fiona. She was licking sperm from Sarah’s chin.
It was Fiona. It was definitely her.
Fiona... with Sarah.
With Sarah? And someone else’s sperm.
On Marcus’s phone?
He stared in shocked disbelief as the camera zoomed in. There was full sound. An old Massive Attack track was playing in the background. Sarah was giggling as Fiona licked her chin. Marcus’s disembodied voice spoke: “Lick it up, my darlin’. Yeeaaahhhh – that’s right. You like that, do you?”
Christ! He sounded so sleazy. He’d used that very same voice as the punchline to a dirty joke over dinner.
Damien’s mouth went dry.
Marcus? With Fiona? With Sarah?
Fiona turned to the camera and smiled.
She had never smiled that way for Damien. The cunt! The fucking cunt!
“Mmmhhh. . .” she mmmhhhed, smacking her cum-stained lips.
She’d never mmmhhhed that way either.
“Good girls,” said Marcus. “That was bloody terrific!”
Then the clip ended. Short and sweet.
Damien had no desire to watch it again. Blood rushed to his head, deflating his penis. His stomach was churning and his hands were shaking. He felt like throwing up.
The intercom suddenly sounded.
Damien froze, staring at the BlackBerry.
The intercom buzzed again, angrily.

When he returned to the room, the DVD said 04:32.
Damien could scarcely recall what had happened at the door. Nothing really. Nothing had happened. Unable to speak, he’d silently proffered the BlackBerry. Marcus had grabbed it, grunted and disappeared. That was all.
He sat there, numbly. His mind was blown. He could barely hold a thought.
He noticed his semen splashed milkily on the brandy glass and the table, but made no move to clean it.
He just sat there...
Fiona announced her presence in the room with a loud yawn. He slowly looked up. She was standing at the doorway, wearing her usual nighttime attire of a T-shirt and nothing else.
“Who was that?” she asked, rubbing her eyes.
Damien stared vacantly at the wife that he no longer knew, the wife he may never have known.
Her T-shirt lifted slightly as she sleepily stretched herself, shamelessly exposing her pussy.
It was bald – just like Sarah’s.
He wondered who had shaved it.
“Well?” she said.
“Oh...” His voice was croaky. He took a breath. “Em... your brother... Markush leftish phone.”
Fiona vanished without saying another word.
Damien glanced over at the DVD.
It was flashing 00:00... 00:00... 00:00...
Closing his eyes, he began to hum ‘Ride of the Valkyries’.