CHLOE

Two years earlier

My eyes catch his across the bar and he gives me a half smile, half smirk; one eye closing in an attempt at a wink. My stomach flips over nervously, and I give him a tentative smile in return. He is one of the regulars and, according to Katie, goes by the name of Fred. Beside me Katie catches this exchange and sniggers, shaking her head as she pulls a pint and sets it down on the bar, holding her hand out to her customer for him to drop a handful of loose change into her outstretched palm. 

I have only worked here a week, and I'm still learning the ropes. Katie isn't particularly friendly - she seems to prefer watching me make mistakes rather than helping me learn. I finish serving my own customer, shut the till and look along the bar to see if anyone else is waiting to be served. Nobody is, and out of the corner of my eye I see him sidling towards me, the same look on his face as before, almost appraising me.

"Alright," he greets me, and I nod, feeling a blush rising in my cheeks. "Just wondering if you wanted to come over when you finish here? Gonna chill out for a bit, listen to some music with some mates. You up for it?"

"Yes, that would be nice," I squeak. I silently hope Katie isn't watching this.

I have lived in my flat for a year now, and haven't made any friends yet. This is part of the reason I took this job at the Flute and Fiddle - to be around people my own age. Socialising isn't my strong point. Years of bullying at secondary school has zapped my confidence and subsequently I shy away from meeting people. But I am so lonely, and I know I have to step out of my comfort zone unless I want to be a hermit forever.

"I'll wait for you when you finish."

He isn't particularly good looking. I don't fancy him or anything - I just want to be accepted into a group, and he is the only person so far to show any interest in being friends. I'm still nervous, though, when I hang my apron on the back of the kitchen door at eleven p.m., say goodbye to Ian and Colette (the owners of the pub) and push open the door to leave the bar lounge. He is waiting for me outside with a couple of other guys of a similar age I presume, smoking a strange smelling cigarette and leaning against the wall with one leg bent at the knee, his foot flat against the bricks. When he sees me he stubs the cigarette out on the wall and flicks the butt onto the grass where it joins hundreds of others, to my silent disapproval.

The walk across the estate doesn't take long. They group is rowdy and silly, pushing and shoving each other and laughing noisily despite the late hour. I can't imagine the residents of the tower block appreciate being woken up by a gang of tipsy idiots, but then again maybe the people behind these miserable grey walls are all tipsy and having their own fun.

His flat is on the fifth floor of a block similar to mine. The stairwell is concrete, cold and uninviting, and smells like someone has emptied their bladder numerous times in the entrance. He pushes open his front door and flicks the light on. Inside is basic: old fashioned furniture, stained, threadbare carpets and mess cluttering every surface. Dirty dishes are stacked up on the worktops and ash trays are over-flowing with stubs. Empty beer cans lie on the coffee table, next to a Playstation controller and a small tin of tobacco. 

"Make yourselves at home, everyone," he says, sweeping his arm around the lounge as though it were a palace. The others flop down on the sofa and armchairs. Someone switches the television on and fires up the playstation. He emerges a minute later with several cans of beer. I wait awkwardly at the side, ignored by them all.

"Oi, shift off the sofa there. Let Chloe sit down."

A blond guy with a ratty goatee curses under his breath but hauls himself up, and he guides me into the now vacant space, squeezing in next to me so our thighs are touching. He hands me a beer can and although I don't much like the taste of alcohol, I don't want to be rude by refusing. I want to fit in. I want to be cool. I want them to like me.

I crack it open and take a gulp, fighting not to grimace at the bitterness. While the others play a couple of games of FIFA and Grand Theft Auto I take several long swigs from my can, hoping the taste will improve as I get used to it. It doesn't.

Another weird cigarette - weed, I now presume - is passed around the group but I pass. I can't inhale smoke without coughing so I would rather decline and be the party pooper than accept and choke in front of everyone. I'm sure I catch a couple of sniggers and knowing looks, but I put my head down and pretend I haven't noticed. 

His arm lies across the back of the sofa behind me to make room for me next to him. As his mates curse and swear at the game on the screen, his arm inches slowly towards me, eventually resting across my shoulders. My heart starts to pound, and not entirely in a good way.

A second offering of beers is brought in, and another spliff passes round the room. The first beer has gone to my head, but I crack open the second and take small sips this time, my stomach full and bloated.

I excuse myself to the toilet to relieve my bladder, stumbling ever so slightly as I stand up. When I exit the bathroom he is waiting for me, and gives me a knowing smile. He takes my hand, and leads me not into the lounge but into another room: his bedroom.

"Just thought you might want to escape that lot for a bit," he smiles.

"Won't they wonder where we've gone?"

"Nah. They're busy with the game. We'll be good for a bit."

He leads me over to his bed, sits down, and pats the vacant space beside him. I take a seat and he moves closer to me so our bodies are touching again. 

"You having a good time?" he asks.

"Um, yeah, thank you," I reply. "Your friends are nice," I add, for something to say, and he chuckles softly.

"Yeah, they're a solid crew." 

He reaches up and gently pushes my hair behind my ear. I look into his eyes, my heart thudding as I realise where this is going, and that I am out of time to decide whether or not I want this. He leans forward and kisses me, pausing only for a moment before pushing his tongue into my mouth. 

I'm not completely backward - I've had a couple of snogs before, when I was a normal kid with parents and friends and a house by the sea. But it's been a few years, and I feel out of practice as he grips the back of my neck with his hand, pulling my face against his. He tastes of beer and weed. I kiss him back, not sure how long this is expected to go on for. All I know is, I want him to like me, and I want to please him.

His other hand comes up my front, and without warning squeezes my breast. I let out a little squeak of surprise, which seems to spur him on because he squeezes it again, pushing against me so I am now lying on my back on his bed. He moves over me so he is half lying on top of me, kissing me harder now and rubbing his hand all over my breast. I think it would probably feel kind of good, if he wasn't quite so rough. He is breathing faster now, and his hand lifts the hem of my top and slips underneath, reaching for my breast again and rubbing my nipple through my bra. He pulls my top up over my head and drops it onto the floor, and then shoves his hand between my legs, rubbing me through my jeans. 

It is a strange sort of feeling. It is uncomfortable and embarrassing, but I know it would be pleasurable if he would be a little more gentle, and if I could just relax. But I am too worried about someone barging in, or worse, admitting that I am nervous and that no one has touched me in this way before. I let him kiss me for another minute, his hands pawing at my chest, and then he suddenly rolls off me and sits up, leaving me wondering if I have done something wrong.

He pulls his own tshirt off, then unbuckles his jeans and pulls them down so he is in just a pair of tatty blue boxer shorts that have seen better days. His chest is white and hairless, and he has no muscle tone at all. He reaches for the button on my jeans, pops them open, and inclines his head, as though telling me I should be the one to pull them down. 

I've never done this before, so I haven't a clue what to expect. I don't know if he wants me to touch him, or even if I want to touch him. I yank my jeans off, kicking them onto the floor, my heart now thudding with nerves. I'm hoping for a knock at the door to interrupt us so I don't have to go any further but my prayers go unanswered as he reaches for me again, pushing his tongue back into my mouth as he rolls back on top of me, parting my legs so he can lie between them. His bare skin feels strange against mine.

I don't know what to do with my hands, and after a minute of heavy kissing he pushes himself up onto his elbows, and then kneels up in front of me. I can see the outline of something in his boxer shorts, and I feel sick with nerves. He pulls them down, and his penis springs up; hard and leaning slightly to one side. I stare at it, trying not to let my hesitation show.

"Go on then," he murmurs.

"What?" I ask.

"Touch it."

I don't know how. I haven't the faintest idea, but he is waiting expectantly so I sit up, reach forward and curl my fingers around it, mid way down. I move my hand up and down gently, not wanting to hurt him or make a fool of myself, and he closes his eyes and lets his head roll back with a soft huff of pleasure. I squeeze my eyes shut and press my lips together, fighting the urge to push him away and run. But I can't back out now - I don't want to offend him, not when he has invited me here and has been so nice to me.

He lifts his head again to look at me, and reaches forward to touch my breast again. I feel sick at the thought of him touching me anywhere else, but no sooner has this flashed through my mind he pulls his hand away from my breast and moves it to my groin, cupping me with his palm before slipping the gusset of my knickers to one side and, without warning, slipping his finger inside me. I gasp, tensing up involuntarily. A sharp pain pierces through me. He takes my gasp as one of pleasure, and as he withdraws one finger he then adds another, stretching me painfully and groaning softly under his breath as he does so.

"Fuck, that's really tight."

I say nothing - I am frozen to the spot. It doesn't feel good; instead it just hurts. He pulls his hand away and I let out the breath I was holding, relieved that the pain has stopped, but now he is pulling my knickers down and pushing me slowly back on the bed. I let him, parting my legs for him to nestle between them, feeling the tip of him pressing against me. I don't want what I know is coming, but I don't know how to stop him without making an idiot of myself. 

He reaches between us, guiding his erection slowly and painfully inside me. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to relax, but my instinct is to tense which only makes me tighter. This seems to please him, because he moans into my neck as he withdraws and pushes in again a couple of times, before starting to move fast. I lie there motionless, desperate for it to be over, the pain of his size splitting me in two. I can't help thinking that this doesn't live up to the romance stories I have read, but that it could probably be really good if I just relaxed and enjoyed it. 

Thankfully it doesn't last long. After a minute or two he takes a deep breath, growls into the crook of my neck and his hips begin to buck. He slows down a little, dragging out the last few thrusts before coming to a stop, panting and sweating. I wait, unsure what I am supposed to do next, but almost immediately he rolls off me onto his back and my insides return to normal again, except for the stinging sensation deep inside where he has rubbed me raw.

He doesn't say anything for a minute or so, and I pull his duvet over me, feeling self-conscious and vulnerable. Eventually he sits up, reaches over the end of the bed and pulls on his boxer shorts. He stands up, retrieves his jeans, and chucks me my clothes from the floor.

"That your first time?"

I look up at him in horror. "Um, yeah."

He nods. "Thought so. Never felt one so tight."

I don't know what to say to this. I don't know if he is paying me a compliment or making fun of me. All I do know is, I feel deeply uncomfortable dissecting it like this.

"It might hurt for a bit," he adds. "But it'll soon feel better."

"OK," I reply, even though I feel far from OK.

"Let's have another beer," he says.

***