Story: An unusual couple

I set out to write a 500 word flash fiction piece; I’ve ended up with a 2500 word fiction piece; but the couple grew on me! 

They are an unusual couple.

He is an IT manager at a city bank, she is a protesting hippie. He graduated from Cambridge with a double first, she wasn’t good at attending school. He irons his underpants, she won’t use the iron. He is a Conservative councillor, she thinks the Socialist Worker isn’t left-wing enough.

As I said, they are an unusual couple: their story is even more so.

Four years ago, she was protesting inside the Square Mile; she had a placard that read “Death to all bankers” and was chanting likewise: all very standard for the time, but as the anarchists infiltrated the campaign group and started assaulting the Police cordon, It turned ugly; she was caught in the middle of it: a fresh-faced, young idealist, barged and harried as two warring factions played out a riot around her.

She was scared, she wanted to leave, she needed to escape, but flying fists and angry voices barred her route to safety.

Until she felt her arm being pulled. She resisted at first, but the pull on her elbow was too strong, and she stumbled frantically through an open door, that closed quickly behind her.

“Safer inside, I think.” She asked a million questions inside her head, but voiced none: the well-dressed, suited man looked on with a smirk: his immaculate black hair and polished designer shoes was everything she wasn’t. “Do you want a cup of tea?”

“Is it fairtrade?”

“Fortnum and Mason, I think.” She looked blankly at him, but a thump against the fire door behind her, scared the pacifist and she followed him down the corridor, into the lobby and up the escalator in the imposing atrium.

His spacious office looked out over a bank of desks, each with people busily tapping away at terminals, as well as having spectacular city views from his window. “Sandwiches?”

“Who are you?” She eventually asked, as he sat down behind his oak desk and she wriggled in her seat.

He smiled. “I could see you from here. Wondered how long it would take before the nutters arrived. They always do!”

She scowled as he ordered lunch from his PA on the intercom, his arrogance gnawing at her and the decadence of his surroundings insulting. She almost apologised to the deferential secretary, bringing in succulent refreshments and them “Sir” and “Ma’am.”

They chatted over lunch: she tried valiantly to convey her feelings of deep disgust at his bonuses and ethos in life, while he humoured her respectfully. “It seems to be calming down out there.” He looked down from his window to see a mass of blue flashing lights and then across at the rescued girl.

“I better go then.”

“Ummm … could we …” He hesitated as the bedraggled girl tore her eyes away from him.


“Meet for dinner, maybe? Tonight.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think me going to your favourite, posh restaurant is a good idea.”

“You choose the place. I mean, I did rescue you from a mob and we’ve hardly had much time to speak.”

She ran her hands through her multi-coloured hair and chuckled. “OK. Meet me outside Temple station at seven thirty,” she offered and slid the chair under his table. “Oh, and don’t wear a suit. You’d stand out.”

He was five minutes early in his designer jeans, she was ten minutes late in her tatty clothes. She walked with him to a dilapidated building housing a soup kitchen. “While you pay hundreds of pounds for a meal for two, there are some people who have nothing to eat. That £200 could fund this place for an evening.”

He growled at her stubbornness: ever eager to make her point. “So you want me to fund it?”

“I’m not asking for money, but this is where I’m spending my evening. ‘Cause I promised Libby I’d help.” Much to her annoyance, he followed her inside; it was noisy and busy, and he introduced himself to the organiser.

His “date” was unimpressed as he funded the soup kitchen for the week, with a “small donation” but also spent the evening distributing food and chatting amicably to the visitors.

“No!” She hissed as he caught up with her, walking back to the train station. “You can’t take me to the restaurant now. I don’t exist in your world. You don’t exist in mine. Go home.”

“You do more than you think,” he replied, waiting for her to open her mouth to speak so he could interrupt her thoughts. “I’ve spent my entire day, entire existence with people who think like me, act like me, are clones of me, and it drives me insane. And while I don’t agree with a lot of what you say and think, I love the fact you will argue it with such ferocity. And I just want to spend some time with you in a neutral setting! I like you. I like your genuine-ness!”

“Sorry,” she snapped as they reached the station. “We go our separate ways here.” Her eyes tore away from the handsome man as her purse beeped at the electronic gate and the barriers refused to open. “Fuck!” She yelled, and then verbally assaulted the electronic machinery. “And no you can’t,” she replied to the unspoken question from the loitering man behind her.

“Well how are you going to get home?” He asked as she gazed into her empty purse.

“Walk,” she muttered, but he barred her exit.


“I’m walking back to my flat, that’s the end of it. It’s only five miles.”

He sighed. “It’s London, it’s 11pm. Dangerous to be walking outside alone. Let me walk you back?”

“I don’t need a man for protection.”

“I never said you did.”

“Well don’t think you are coming inside my house.”

“Sure. Just so you are safe. You might get caught up in another riot!” She scowled at his smarmy reply. But reluctantly allowed him to walk with her and to buy them both a kebab and Coke from a late-night takeaway. He listened to her rants: the unfairness of society, the corruption of the elite, the obscenity of bankers wages and a dozen other grievances. They reached the end of her road in run-down Hackney as the gentle shower turned to rain. “I don’t suppose I could use your toilet, could I? That Coke’s gone straight through me!”

While her view of the affable man had certainly softened, she wasn’t sure if him knowing her address was a good thing, but she had no reason to decline and unlocked the maisonette a few doors down. “You can spend the night on the sofa if you want,” she generously offered as lightning illuminated the lounge. “But you aren’t getting anything more than sleep,” she added, as she locked her bedroom door when he accepted. “Night!”

The following morning he took her out to the local café for breakfast and as their ideological differences could not be sorted over bacon, eggs and hash browns, they extended their arguments to picnic in the park, and then a home-cooked lentil risotto with wine at tea.

And that’s when he touched her for the first time: she wouldn’t allow him to speak, filibustering like a wizened politician, and he tickled her, running his fingers up her body to cause her to collapse into a giggling mess of anarchical laughter on the floor, her skirt twisted and her legs thrashing uncontrollably: she wasn’t wearing any knickers.

It got him hard: she noticed. “I never wear any knickers,” she added. “Want to be with nature.” She watched his crotch, at her eye level. “Because underwear is a capitalist invention: making people spend money they don’t need to; solving a problem that doesn’t exist! For profit!” He simpered at her mischievous eyes and held out his hand to pull her from the floor. She didn’t take it, but wriggled free.

“Is that true of just knickers or are there other items of clothing you have declared war on?”

She snorted at his patronising voice. “Indoors, all clothes are capitalist evil.” She cackled at his startled expression.

“So you are a slave to capitalism too, as you are still fully dressed?”

Tipsiness and indignation welled inside of her and, staring straight at his eyes, lowered her skirt and tossed her shirt to the corner of the room. “Have I scared you enough now?”

He shook his head. “Not a chance.” His eyes glanced at her glorious body and marks on the top of her waist. “Are they tattoos?”


“Can I see?”

“Duh!” He sat on the edge of the sofa, and touched her waist as he looked at the multi-coloured butterfly on her mons laced with messages and a separate quote that encircled the waist.

“We will not learn how to live together in peace by killing each other’s children,” he read out as he twisted the naked woman to read across the top of her bum, and then back around her hip.

“I got it for the Iraq War. We need to celebrate differences not fight them and …” Her voice pattered into nothing as he raised his eyebrows. “I know what you are going to say …”

“What?” He asked with faux innocence.

“That because of … today … I’m fighting you.”

“I never said that. But …”

“I’m not.”

“But where’s the love and peace today, my views and values have been hammered!” She giggled at his quizzical eyebrow and watched as his lips touched the top of her tattooed mons, kissing it gently, as he stared up her lithe body into her anxious eyes.

This wasn’t in the plan; this wasn’t what she planned, but she couldn’t resist, watching his luscious lips curl around her butterfly and dance seductively over her expectation. His hands grabbed her buttocks roughly, thrusting her body tight against him.

She couldn’t want this: this man was a right-wing disgrace, an arrogant toad who thought he merely needed to snap his fingers to have her come running, while she was a feminist free spirit. What was wrong with her if her body wanted this; why should she want the soft glow of his tongue wrapped around her crotch, or the hunched, submissive position as he lovingly kissed her.

She involuntarily held onto the back of his head as she voluntarily parted her legs, giving his tongue access to the beginnings of her crack. She groaned out of frustration; he gently poked her without sliding against her clitoris; suddenly, she needed it: six long weeks since she last had a gentleman between her thighs, and she needed it. She squealed, and allowed him to spin her onto the sofa, barely stopping as he parted her legs with his forceful hands and swept his warm tongue along her diminishing resistance.

He was the enemy: a child of capitalism, a lieutenant of greed, but as his tongue squirmed against her button, and a finger pushed against her pussy, her mind became a sparkling entanglement of blissful lust. Her consciousness stopped caring who he was, desperate to ride his motions to their explosive completion.

He was confident, driving his finger into her with a slow, steady rhythm while her clit buzzed with inflamed desire under the melting swirl of his tongue. Her body was floating: a disconnect between the her lust riddled consciousness and reality, as her loins dominated her senses with intense satisfaction. Nothing else mattered. She sensed nothing else: her mind and body were focused on the firm twists of his tongue against her engorged clit.

Her climax careered towards her; she was unable to control the release of her body’s unyielding desire as it tore through her system. Her thighs trembled against her ears, her cunt squeezed his intruding fingers, her mind exploded into a blast of hedonistic overload and her voice groaned on repeat.

She panted, tugging at his belt and desperate to free his erect cock from his underwear: he had a condom in his wallet, she was impatient unfurling it down his cock, as she guided his intruding erection into her soft, welcoming pussy.

She gasped with delight as it plugged her; filling her cunt with delicious glow as he gently rocked into her womanly needs. And how she needed it: not since Trojan at the Protest Camp had her pussy been rammed by passionate sex, and her senses overflowed with irritable lust that they been denied for so long!

He looked at her in the eyes, slamming his thighs against hers with passionate ferocity. Her arousal rubbed against him, as she screamed with lewd instruction. “Faster – harder!” He panted as his hips hammered his cock into her, gliding effortlessly into her slick cunt.

The harshness of the sofa, the smell of joss-sticks in the room, the lingering taste of their dinner: all should have touched her senses but were ignored by the passionate pounding in the cunt. She could feel another orgasm sweeping up on her: blasting away at her resistance.

With a guttral squeal, she wordlessly announced her overpowering orgasm to the world, yelling as wave after wave of tremors tore through her body and squeezed his intruding cock into coming into the condom.

She panted, Savouring every glow from her body as he reached for the tissues. “You just fucked that hippie!”

“That hippie was very good. But you just got fucked by a capitalist!” He joked and she shrugged.

“Happens all the time,” she muttered, and kissed him on the cheek. “This time I enjoyed it! OK. You can take me to that restaurant tomorrow,” she begrudgingly offered. “But nothing too posh!”

That was then, and this is now: whenever there is a demonstration in London, he visits her with lunch and often an orgasm: it’s a funny sight to see them together, and indeed they are a funny couple: but love can bring people together … no matter what their background.


Wicked Wednesday

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  1. reminds me of the fact that often we suffocate in our own worlds and need someone that will push and challenge us. I love the story, well done
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