Andy Hayward would love your feedback! Got a few minutes to write a review?
Write a Review

Diseased Soul

By Andy Hayward All Rights Reserved ©

Romance / Other

Chapter 2

From: Elizabeth.

To:

Date: 17/03/2008 16:12:55

Subject: Wednesday Food

Steady on now. You forgot to mention my chimp feet and cankles! After Friday night, I won’t be able to keep my hands off you and I’m sure I will find it impossible to remain a professional distance from you at work! The sooner I get my next fix of you the better, Professor Yum. How about I rustle up a Zambian delight on Wednesday night? Ifisashi and Nshima! Its soul food, don’t you know. I’ve never actually prepared it before but… if I can cook it even half as well as my housekeeper back home did, then it shouldn’t disappoint.


From:

To: Elizabeth.

Date: 17/03/2008 18:30:56

Subject: RE: Wednesday Food

What a hectic day I’ve had. Balancing teaching with running experiments can be tricky, especially when students don’t turn up on time for their tutorials. Infuriating! Back to the more pleasant topic of you…

I’m both impressed and a little intimidated that you had a house keeper back in Zambia. My own upbringing was considerably less privileged. Though Dad was a hard-working tradesman his earnings must have been disproportionately small in relation to the size of his family. All six of his children were a demanding lot too and I was probably the worst offender. Mum, without ever offering a suitable explanation why, always said I was “special”. When used by her I took that word with some ambivalence but it did help me get my own way; ensuring I had a steady supply of Technics Lego for many birthday’s and Christmas’s. The culmination of my persuasive ability was when, after eighteen months of digging my heals in, of nagging, of forlorn looks; of bottom lip quivering (which I was an expert at, even bringing a tear to my eye when absolutely necessary); Dad eventually caved-in and bought me my first new bicycle: a BMX. And typical of Dad, it was a surprise even though I’d talked of nothing else for months.

You told me how important family is. And, just because you’ll never meet him, I’d like you to know more about Dad. Read at your convenience…

After finishing work early on the Friday before my eleventh birthday he unexpectedly whisked me off to Manchester, by train, to visit my eldest brother, Samuel, who was studying there. Sam met us at the railway station and the three of us caught a bus. I knew immediately and repeatedly told Dad we had caught the wrong bus. With a familiar twinkle in his eye he calmed me by saying “No need to worry, the bus will take to us where we’re heading” and “We’re on the right bus, don’t panic”. I had no idea what he was up to this time, though I suspected he had a plan. After a short walk from the bus stop we reached a gargantuan red brick building with the words “Cycle Warehouse” printed in large bold letters on the placard above its entrance. It was only then I made the vital connection between my birthday and what I had been petitioning Dad for all this time.

I couldn’t help myself and asked “Dad, why are we here?”, “You’ll find out soon” he replied. His eyes twinkled again. He enjoyed the game. Once inside there was every size, shape, and colour of bicycle imaginable and in one corner of the large open-plan space there were more BMXs than I had ever before seen my life. I was hopping mad with excitement already but when Dad turned around to me and said “Now me laddio, go ahead and choose the one you’d like for your birthday” I couldn’t contain myself. I raced around that warehouse like a raving mad, madman until my eyes rested on the shiniest BMX I could find, a fully chromed MT Racing Smart Fox. It was neither the best nor the worst bike in the world, but it was quite possibly the shiniest. Dad bought it there and then and it must have cost him more than a week’s wages. That’s my poor Dad all over!

Thanks for reading that. Dad is the reason why I can look back at my childhood with rose tinted spectacles.

Your invitation for food is accepted.

Home time soon! Hope you’ve got something more interesting planned than all the paper work I have to catch up on.

From: Elizabeth.

To:

Date: 17/03/2008 17:45:15

Subject: RE: Wednesday Food

Six kids? Wow! Didn’t your parents have a TV? I’ll consider myself to be a very lucky girl if your sex drive match’s your Dad’s. Be warned you MUST take the necessary precautions when I finally choose to give myself to you. I DON’T WANNA GET UP THE DUFF. Got it?

From:

To: Elizabeth.

Date: 20/03/2008 07:30:56

Subject: RE: Wednesday Food

Caution duly noted. The food was terrific. I have never heard of, let alone, tasted Ifisashi or Nshima before. Ifisashi reminded me of a more wholesome version of Malaysian satay, without the spices. Now, as I was trying to explain – before the wine kicked in – Nshima took me right back to my childhood and Cadbury’s Smash, which, far from being a slur against your culinary skills should be taken as a compliment. I loved the taste of instant mashed potato when I was kid, and loved the “For Mash Get Smash” advertisements too (see: http://www.youvid/eightiesads/cadbury-smash/) which starred those quirky looking tin robot Martians with their Dalek-like voices. The technique of shaping Nshima into a spoon with my hand then using it to scoop up the sauce was well beyond my level of expertise especially after the two bottles of Campo Viejo Tempranillo Gran Reserva we managed we glugged. I apologise for having such a good time making such a mess! Too smashed to get mash, I’m afraid!

From: Elizabeth.

To:

Date: 20/03/2008 10:04:21

Subject: RE: Wednesday Food

Oh, so that’s Smash? I’ve only just twigged that it doesn’t contain chocolate. Stupido! I must have been in Africa when they were showing that advert. I’m guessing CAMPOBLABLAWHATCHAMACALLIT is something else brought you’ve back from cycling holidays. There’s no need to apologise for making a mess. I love cleaning my kitchen – it’s soothing – and anyway the technique of eating Nshima takes years to master. It’s a skill best learned as a child. I’m glad you liked the food. I’d forgotten how labour intensive preparing traditional Zambian food can be! It’s far too effortful for my liking! To be avoided at all costs in the future, unless, that is, you can find a house keeper to slave away for me. In my dreams! In truth, I had a brilliant time last night. You’re a very good listener, Jon. You breathed in my every word, apparently, as easily as you breathe air. It was as though my words were the air sustaining your very life. And the way you touched me, so very tenderly….ummm I’m floating off now just thinking about it. You made me feel like I was only woman you’d ever known. You are most certainly the kind of man I could fall in love with, if I haven’t done so already. I cannot believe I just blurted that out! I very nearly told you over dinner, after just one date! You must think I’m a desperate nearly-forty-year-old woman in the last chance saloon. Grrrr. I’m getting carried away with myself again. Thank you for respecting my wish not to have sex. Lying naked next to a beautiful woman and not having the anticipated release must have been frustrating. It won’t be long before I feel comfortable enough to give myself to you fully. You won’t be disappointed when it happens. I’ll make sure of it ;-). Don’t ever be ashamed or embarrassed about your roots or upbringing! Be proud. I would have never have guessed about your relatively poor background. I can’t quite pinpoint why, exactly, but when I first saw you around the department you seemed to have an air of being moneyed. Perhaps it had something to do with the way you walked proudly chin-up. Maybe it was your catalogue-model looks (!), the letters after your name or just a bit of fanciful thinking on my part. And, Jon I didn’t have just a housekeeper. I had two maids, a grounds man and chauffeur too.

I can’t wait for Saturday. Have a good night’s sleep tonight, if you can. I am so excited about us. It definitely feels right! -xxx-

From:

To: Elizabeth.

Date: 20/03/2008 13:20:51

Subject: RE: Wednesday Food

You’re right about the wine. I found it on my cycling holidays. Then, I limited myself to the more financially palatable Tempranillo rather than its costlier cousin but thought that the Gran Reserva would be more suited to our dinner date. Neither is hugely expensive in wine circles but the salary of an overworked underpaid post-doc doesn’t stretch far…

What a privilege to have all those servants! I’ve neither been ashamed nor proud about my upbringing. My childhood was utterly devoid of luxury. Until I was eight years old, I shared the three-bedroom house my parents rented from the council with my five siblings. In all, eight people lived there. It was an end-of-terrace house, positioned at beginning of a small cul-de-sac, comprising 3 other near identical houses, which together sat on the edge of a larger estate. I shared one of the largest bedrooms at the stairs-end of the landing with my two older brothers, the eldest had his own bed, leaving my other brother, Zach, and me, to share a bunk. By virtue of his age he took dibs on the top bunk leaving me the bottom one, a dangerous place. Often, I’d absentmindedly forget where I was. And often the springs and the wire-matrix which supported Zachs’ mattress snatched hold of my hair when I sat up in bed. There were two ways to extract myself, one less painful and less likely to happen than the other. The first relied upon asking Zach for help. Gently lowering his weight onto his bed caused the springs to bend open and release my hair, painlessly. That happened rarely. He usually preferred to withhold assistance and waited for me to apply the second technique which involved bracing myself against the bed frame, gritting my teeth in preparedness for a swift forceful tug. I lost clumps of hair that way. He never stopped finding that funny. I never stopped finding it humiliating and painful. My three sisters had an equivalent arrangement in the remaining large bedroom at the opposite end of the landing whilst my parents occupied the smallest, box-room, sandwiched in-between. Our cramped living conditions must have registered upon my young eyes so too did the thread-bare carpets, tatty upholstery and the hand-me-down clothes. Yet, I accepted the reality I was presented and believed the way we lived was perfectly normal. So, naturally, I’m intrigued to read that I somehow gave you the impression of being “moneyed.” I wasn’t born into money. Now, it slips out of my hands like butter off a hot frying pan. I lack eloquence. Friends say that I talk like a lab report. Any capacity I have for words soon evaporates around women, particularly ones I’m attracted. And I am neither well-groomed nor fashionable to come across as being wealthy either. Most of the time I look scruffy. Not quite like a park bench vagabond, but close (ish). At work, my sartorial choices are limited to pumps, corduroy’s or jeans coupled with a T-shirt or short-sleeved shirt. During the spring its combat shorts all the way through to summer. I deliberately refuse to wear trousers or a jacket to work since I don’t wish to resemble, in any shape or form, the archetypal academic. If you call me the Corduroy Professor in person again I’ll console myself that that’s because you’ve never met a real one. Think yourself lucky. Although I’ve earned the title of Dr, I have PhD not MD after my name and shall never earn the salary of what most people would consider to be a proper doctor. Dad clipping my ear every time he noticed me walking with my chin tucked into my chest is wholly responsible for the more assertive gate I now possess. Perhaps that filled you with fanciful ideas I had money. I’m dead on my feet today. Fatigue, mugginess, brain-fog, call it what you like. It’s a minuscule price to pay for the great time we had last night. I echo your sentiments and, without wanting to seem impetuous, I feel just the same way about you. You are, without doubt, a woman I could very easily fall in love with. I find your company intoxicating. A trace of your perfume has lingered all day. By association your naked body has teased me in just the same way as it did last night. Distracting, to say the least. What perfume is that? Powerful stuff. I’m in no hurry to engage headlong into a full blown sexual relationship, either. I’m fiercely attracted to you, without a doubt, and I understand – or at least I think I do – the reasons why you want to wait. So, wait we must.

From: Elizabeth.
To:

Date:
20/03/2008 16:20:30
Subject: RE:
Wednesday Food The perfume I wear, Amber, is from Prada as are my Cat’s-Eye sunglasses. Both deserve their expensive price tags and I utterly deserve to have them. Just to be clear and just so you don’t get carried away with yourself or get the wrong impression my Zambian friends lived in much larger houses with many more servants than I ever did so I was not so privileged, after all. Though, in comparison to a scruffy council estate kid like you, I lived like a Princess. Some people, I guess, are just more worthy than others. Get over it. Those clips around the ear did a great job in duping me into believing you had money. Pfff! Brilliant work Jon’s dad! Your brother, like mine, sounds like a real bully. I feel quite sorry for the little-boy-you. It is one thing to abandon a younger brother whose hair is caught in a bunk, suffering; it’s entirely another, almost sadistic, to watch, laugh and do nothing whilst a little boy struggles to free himself and rips out clumps of hair in the process! Oooouch! Why does there have to be such evil people in the world? That kind of behaviour sickens me to my very soul. I’ve been shattered all day too. Bedroom antics come at a cost, obviously. But tell me doc, when is my next opportunity for scent marking? Can’t wait to peal you out of those not-so-carefully chosen clothes. I wanna whip them off and put them right where they belong, in the bin. Just kidding, for now at least! Do let me get my hands on that lush body of yours again soon. I’m getting wet just thinking about it. I hope no one else can read these emails. University accounts are secure, aren’t they? I’ve written too much already, but I’d still appreciate you checking-up on that status, Dr Boffin Features. Your emails are sooo cute. Do keep them coming. As a hopeless romantic I’d prefer letters but a girl can’t everything in this modern age, can she? Honestly Jon, I wish you’d join Facebook, that way you could read my daily updates, marvel at the fabulous comments my friends make about me and ogle at my awesome selfies. You might even be tempted to lampoon our friends by leaving them the odd, suggestive message, like I do. You’re missing out on so much fun! Anyway, I’m off home now. Tonight, I’m having a “quiet night in.” I’ve pencilled-in a long soak in a warm bubble bath and that means playing with myself, with your lush ripped body in mind. It’ll be hot and steamy in my bathroom later, I can tell you! Oops, did that wake you?


From:
To: Elizabeth.
Date: 21/03/ 2008 10:05:20
Subject: Spilt Coffee I’ve only just been able to reply to your final email of yesterday. In hindsight, I should have avoided reading it with a fresh mug of frothy coffee in my hand. So taken aback by its erotic content my mug ejaculated its contents over my office computer! One of the tech boys has just finished replacing the keyboard, which took the brunt. He suspected the sticky keys of the original were caused by an ejaculate of a different kind. A disgusting thought. Even more disgusting was that he smelled the keyboard to check! Gross. Fortunately, the eroticism offered by you on the one hand overshadowed any disgust offered by him on the other and for that reason it will be quite a challenge to focus on my work today…

From: Elizabeth.
To:
Date: 21/03/ 2008 12.56:23
Subject: RE: Spilt Coffee
Hey Lovely Boy, Don’t blame me. You started the ball rolling. My bubbly adventure wasn’t much more explicit than that story about your sexy young boss. You make me giggle! You’re so easy to wind up! I thought the image of bringing myself to an intense and satisfying climaaaAX whilst taking a l – o – n – g soak in the bath might get you through another interminable day in the lab! Tell me to stop teasing and I will. I know you won’t. You love it too much. All guys like being teased. Seriously, since our first date I’ve been as horny as BIGHORNYTHING. I’ve been experiencing a recurring dream too, which I’m CONVINCED is about you. It’s been playing on repeat every night since Sunday. My bedtime routine and the details of the dream are the same every time. A short time after tucking myself up in bed I start reading my book – Modoc: The True Story of the Greatest Elephant That Ever Lived. Inspiring. Sad, FYI– to find the shutters are being brought down sooner than I’d like. I fight the urge to sleep and wrestle to read to the end of a sentence, the end of a paragraph, the end of a page. Finally, the shutters close, locked shut. My grip loosens on Modoc. A clap of leaves as wakes me. With my eyes remaining closed, I lean over to switch off the lamp, find a comfortable spot, pull the duvet over, tight, bury my head in a pillow and fall quickly into a blissful deep sleep. I begin dreaming almost immediately. At first the sensations I feel are vague, fuzzy and have ethereal quality to them. I feel a presence in the room with me. There’s manly smell. I hear a whisper of breathing unlike that of my own and a shiver runs down my spine… Watch out! Hold onto your coffee! The sensations soon become more distinct. I feel something moist, warm and soft, a tongue licking my clitoris to a gentle rhythm. My lips part, two fingers pulse in then out of my vagina in time to the rhythm described by the tongue. Together the percussion intensifies, the cadence quickens and then…and then, I grab the sheets with both hands, arch my back and all hell breaks loose. Ecstasy fills my mind and body as instantaneously as a bright light fills a very dark room. The orgasm wakes me. I notice my pussy. It feels wet as do the index and middle fingers of my right hand. The sheets are drenched. I am left with a feeling of emptiness, loneliness. I’ve never had dreams like these, not as an adult. I must be crazy talking to you about it so openly. It’s obvious I’m craving intimacy but I’d like to hold off having sex for a little while longer, if you don’t mind. Back to the humdrum of everyday life. Today has been a chore-filled day. I’ve cleaned the bathroom, vacuumed and dusted the entire flat, done all my laundry and ended the day by taking a long walk with the pesky pooches, collective known as The Funk Bunch, individually known as Roobarb and Custard. I’ve been day dreaming about you for most of the day. My pussy is tingling. Yuuuummmy! I hope you’re having a truly fabulous day honey!


From:
To: Elizabeth.
Date: 21/03/ 2008 13:02:22
Subject: RE: Spilt Coffee I should have heeded your warning… There goes another coffee! This time a draft copy of a paper on which I’m working was the sole victim of espresso ejaculate. The performance of that ‘manly presence’ in your dream will be lot to live up to! Can you confirm whether there is any truth to your dream or was it just another tease? Either way, it stirredmy sexual energy- energy which must now be diverted to the mundane task of work this afternoon. For a less obvious reason, reading your email has made me smile! I’m envious you’ve found the time to take the Funk Bunch for a stroll and enjoyed a rare day of sunshine in February. It’s a pity I won’t get to experience it first-hand. Instead I must return to the “dungeon” and clean rat poo from training boxes. What wonderfully stimulating jobs we have! Eau de Rat Poo it’s the very latest in designer fragrances for modern intellectuals. It’s expensive too, costing three years of working ten to twelve hour days, seven days a week, with poor pay, few holidays, the burden of a professional studies loan, breathing air thick with pungent aerosols, the oppressive absence of natural daylight and limited job prospects. I’ll refrain from labouring the point. Granted, Eau de Rat Poo is not as cool as Prada and the protective glasses I wear occasionally in the lab are not nearly as sleek as your Cat’s-Eyes. Are those the ones which make look a bit like Efferia pogonias by the way?
From: Elizabeth.
To:
Date: 21/03/ 2008 14:16:55
Subject: RE: Spilt Coffee I’ll run over to the lab and Efferia pogonias your ass if you’re not careful! I might not be a clever as you but I am clever enough to know when someone is trying to make me look stupid by using intellectual gobbledygook to dress up an insult. Latin references like this may once have impressed people. But now, I don’t even have to press Enter in Google to know that you’re calling me an ASSASSIN FLY. Is that what you really think of me? Mocking my choice of perfume and accessories is infantile. You don’t understand people. It’s as a plain as a pikestaff you’ve been in the lab too long and forgotten the fundamentals of GETTINGALONGWITHPEOPLE. You’d be better off sticking with lab-rats as play mates! Calling me a liar about my dreams is outrageous! Do you think I reveal such personal and sensitive information lightly? Duh- No! You have thoroughly spoiled the lovely day I was having. Thanks a bunch Professor Shit for Brains. An ‘academic footnote’. No-one forced you to study for a PhD, so why whine about it?

From:
To: Elizabeth.
Date: 21/03/ 2008 14:27:01
Subject: RE: Spilt Coffee Your glasses have large frames – like a fly. It was my mistake to mention ‘Assassin fly’, specifically. I wouldn’t have thought you were capable of assassination until about ten minutes ago! The comment was my best attempt at a joke. A poor one, obviously. Forgive me…please…before you decide to go ahead and put a slug in the back of head. Okay, there may be some merit to the idea of my being lab-bound for too long. I haven’t had a girlfriend since the last one sold the house I owned behind my back and jetted off to a new life in the Antipodes with bulging pockets. That was sevens ago. You’ve been very good about helping me come to terms with that and showed great insight sometimes. And sometimes, well, you get me wrong. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I do have an impaired ability to interact with women, most specifically you. I’ll assimilate your verdict and update my “how to interact with Beth” schema for future interactions. Do you have a spare copy of “GETTINGALONGWITHPEOPLE for dummies” handbook? I’ve only said –or thought I had– kind words about your perfume. Its powerful musk suits you and grabs my attention in all the right ways. My question about your dream was genuine. You teased me about that orgasmic bubble bath and thought you might have done the same about your dream. Talk about putting my foot in it. Sorry if I offended you in any way.

From: Elizabeth.
To:
Date: 21/03/ 2008 16:02:45
Subject: RE: Spilt Coffee I suppose I did overreact, a bit. I booked today off as annual leave to rest after a hectic week. What with work, Mum, the dogs, missing out on sleep as a consequence of dating you…I’ve felt like an over pressurised boiler ready to explode all week. The antidote- cleaning. It works a treat. Dusting, scrubbing, mopping, and vacuuming – It’s therapy on the cheap. I recommend it. It kinda keeps me fit too. Bonus. That’s what I’ve been doing for most of the afternoon. The place looks immaculate now and smells, like a “Fresh Country Meadow”, or so the bottle of detergent says. Afterwards, to unwind that bit further, I took the Funk Bunch to Alexandra Park. They give me so much pleasure when they behave. Roobarb, bless him, did his best to keep up with Custard who busied herself chasing squirrels. I felt super-relaxed when I returned to the flat. I felt good after reading the emails you sent this morning too but then I made the stupid mistake of checking my Facebook…I’m now back to where a started, ready to explode… Everyone is talking about me Jon, EVERYONE! Listen up. I cherish my privacy! I’ve tried very hard all these years to keep myself to myself, to keep my business my own and I never discuss personal matters at work: never, ever. I’m not the type of the person to blabber and spread gossip. Yet, even before I’d changed my Facebook status to “In a relationship” all my friends and work mates at Metro knew about us. I can’t believe this is happening! Haven’t these people got better things to do than chin-wag about my business? I know you haven’t read it, and you’ll just be stupidly pious about it, but they’re openly discussing whether I actually might have anything in common with you. They’re making out that you’re too young for me and chatting about lot of other things I don’t want them chatting about. I’m hellava annoyed about the prospect of being the subject of EVERYONE’s idle chatter. I’m utterly dreading going back into work on Monday now. I’m going to be bombarded with all sorts of questions – if I’m lucky. More likely, the gossipers will hide behind the mask of normality and save the best for Facebook later. I honestly can’t say what I’ll do to the person who let the cat out of the bag! I’ll never be able to live this down.

From:
To: Elizabeth.
Date: 21/03/ 2008 17:15:05
Subject: RE: Spilt Coffee You’re catastrophizing…please slow down. Breathe. It can’t be nearly as bad as you’re making out, can it? But let’s look at the situation like detectives. How could our story have become ‘news’? First, no one checks departmental emails. I checked but forgot to tell you. Let’s be realistic. Anyone could have seen us at that bar having lunch. It’s just around the corner. It would near impossible for colleagues to overlook the ruddy alcohol-induced complexion/ smug grin combination I sported after lunch. Then there are the friends of yours we bumped into at the Signal Box, not to mention your cousins and their respective partners to consider. Anyone of them may have begun a rumour…and you know what rumours are like…they spread…they’re added to, twisted, contorted…ever more quickly and easily with aid of a certain social media website. It’s very nearly impossible to hide things like this, not without trying really hard. I didn’t know we were supposed to be trying. There’s really no point trying to be secretive, is there? If you want a scapegoat just blame me and forget about it. Please. There are two points in your previous email which perplex me. First, if EVERYONE (a select few?), is talking then surely the subject of discussion is “we”, not “me”, as you assert. Second, the idea of valuing privacy seems to be at odds with using social media websites. From the point of view of someone who avoids using them, it seems to me their chief purpose is to broadcast the intimate details of one’s life to parties interested or not. If I’ve erred on this issue, perhaps you could clarify. The news has travelled fast. Personally, I don’t care a bit that we’re the topic of idle chatter. Isn’t it just mildly sad that people have nothing better to do with their time than talk about us? The gossip is worthless and should be ignored. It certainly won’t change the way I feel about you. I still can’t sleep. I’ve not eaten much and I haven’t stopped thinking about you since our first date…I’m becoming marginally obsessed. I hope that’s some comfort.

Continue Reading Next Chapter
{{ contest.story_page_sticky_bar_text }} Be the first to recommend this story.

About Us:

Inkitt is the world’s first reader-powered book publisher, offering an online community for talented authors and book lovers. Write captivating stories, read enchanting novels, and we’ll publish the books you love the most based on crowd wisdom.