DISCLAIMER: Suburban Shootout and its characters are the property of Feelgood Fiction, Five and Paramount Comedy. No infringement intended.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
It's all a bit of a blur, really. She remembers feeling particularly strange on the drive over. She'd assumed that it was related to the slight disagreement she'd had with Jeremy over the frizziness of her hair. Or those God-awful HRT patches.
Then she'd seen Lillian in her pretty blue dress and things went pear-shaped. What was supposed to be an innocent comment on a garment accentuating a person's features came out sounding really quite lewd and suggestive. And was interpreted as such.
And she supposes that is how she came to be lying naked in Camilla Diamond's king-size bed with a bruise rapidly forming on her inner thigh.
She turns to the side to see Lillian holding out a cigarette in her direction. Lillian looks exceedingly happy and satisfied and for a moment, Joyce feels quite proud of herself. She quickly quashes that feeling and shakes her head firmly.
"No, thank you. I don't."
Lillian nods once and takes a draw of the cigarette herself.
No, thank you. I don't. Now, why hadn't she said that to Lillian's earlier offers?
'Quick shag?' 'No, thank you. I don't.'
'Spot of cunnilingus?' 'No, thank you. I don't.'
Too late for all of that now. Now she's got to think of a polite way to request that Lillian never tells another living soul about the events of that afternoon. And also a gentle, but firm way of letting Lillian know that this was a one-off thing. Never to be repeated. An enjoyable aberration. Nothing more, nothing less.
She turns her head to find Lillian staring at her in that adoring, but slightly psychotic, way of hers. Lillian quirks an eyebrow.
"Fancy going again?"
'No, thank you. I don't.'
"Yes, why not?"
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