Page 3 of Rubbing One Out

Chapter 2

Home at last in his cosy two-bedroom thatched cottage, Ben sighed in relief as he got out of his jacket and gloves, leaving them in an untidy pile on the dining room table. He strolled into the kitchen over to the fridge and retrieved a beer. He popped the tab, took a slug, and sighed in satisfaction. That hits the spot.

He’d hardly had time to drink the first sip when a bundle of black fur tackled him waist-high, and a wet tongue licked him from jaw to temple.

“Tess, how are you doing, baby?” Ben ruffled the dog’s fur as she climbed down. “Did you have a good day?”

Tess sat smiling up at him, her brown eyes filled with love. She was a rescue Labrador, and Ben’s best part about coming home. A human had never greeted him with as much enthusiasm as she did each day.

He checked Tess had fresh water and kibble, then made his way into the adjoining lounge, Tess trotting behind him. It was quaint. A proper bachelor pad with only what was needed: an armchair, a two-seater couch, a couple of small side tables, and a set of bookshelves along the wall that didn’t slope down. His fifty-nine-inch television took pride of place in the corner.

Upstairs were two small bedrooms and a bathroom. It was everything Ben needed.

He slumped into his favourite chair. One he’d rescued from a flea market. It was a huge, floppy fabric affair of biscuit-coloured comfort and Ben loved nothing more than to stretch out on it after a hard day’s work and watch a David Attenborough programme.

He took another drink and put his feet up on the rustic centre coffee table (yet another buy from a flea market). Tess settled comfortably at his feet although she did give him a disdainful stare.

“I’ll take you for a walk in a minute. Let me finish my beer.”

It was comforting to come home to someone, even if it was a fur baby, although his lounge was starting to look more like an animal haven than an adult’s dwelling. Tess’s toys littered the floor—old socks, half-chewed rope toys, and a manky old duck toy she loved. Home to Ben’s aging guinea pig, Pookums, was a cage in the corner—a medium-size wooden structure behind wire, resembling a tiny comfortable log cabin, with walkways and exercise areas. It cramped the room a little, but Ben would have it no other way.

Currently, Pookums, who was seven years old, lay on the bottom of the cage, curled up and snoring. Ben knew his little friend didn’t have long left. He’d inherited the silly-named animal from his niece, Lucy, when his brother had taken his family abroad to Australia. She’d been devastated leaving her little friend behind, but Ben had promised to take care of him.

He reached down idly and scratched his belly. He supposed he should be thinking about making himself something to eat, but he honestly couldn’t be bothered. Being an admitted lazy chef, he was content to eat microwave meals and live on pastries and fast food. He was lucky he had a fast metabolism, or he’d be the size of the Michelin Man by now. Grunting, he got up to putter about in the kitchen to see what was there. As he brushed past his backpack, there was a loud clang. He turned to see the lamp he’d bought swivelling slowly on the floor as if it were playing a game of spin the bottle.

He bent down to pick it up and was again struck by the ornate patterns on the brass. There were swirls of what looked like angel wings against a cloudy sky. The little teapot-like lid had come loose, tethered to the handle by a delicate brass chain. Ben wondered what the lamp had once carried. Precious oils perhaps for a gentleman or lady faring overseas by a wind-sailed boat, or possibly scented tea for the Grand Poo-Bah of an elite desert sect with a harem of cute men to service his every need.

Huh. Where the heck did that come from? It’s only a lamp, you silly tosser.

He sniffed the opening and could detect a whiff of something spicy, sandalwood perhaps, and another odour he couldn’t quite identify, which made him close his eyes and imagine dirty thoughts. It invoked the scent of a man’s skin, the soft tendrils of his hair, and the enticing thrill of warm flesh against his. Ben could feel long, experienced fingers grasping him and slicking him to completion…

“Jesus,” he gasped, and he drew away in aroused panic. “What the hell?”

Inside his jeans, his cock made its enjoyment of the tantalising experience known, and Ben pressed a hand against his groin. “Calm down, you. It’s an old oil lamp, not a naked Tom Hiddleston. There’s no need for that kind of reaction.”

He sniffed cautiously at the lamp again, but the fragrance seemed to have disappeared. “Huh,” he said thoughtfully. “Perhaps you do have a bit of magic in you after all.” He put the lamp on the table and fetched another beer, completely forgetting he’d originally been heading to find something to eat.

Ben glowered at the lamp as he drank his beer and wondered what had happened to give him a chub. He didn’t mind so much as not knowing what had prompted his out-of-control reaction. He tended to be something of a control freak.

The low-pitched wood-framed windows in the lounge looked out onto a large stretch of garden, complete with stream, and a field, beyond which was his closest neighbour. Christine was a hardworking farmer, a woman in her sixties who laboured like a Trojan and could be seen out every morning before the cock crowed. Because the cock did crow, unfortunately. Like clockwork at six-thirty in the morning. Her rooster, Tricky Dicky (Ben still had to find out how the damned bird had got his name), perched on the wooden fence separating the two properties. With great gusto, he’d then proceed to give a raucous rendition of cock crows, which seemed to go on forever. At last count, five before the poxy rooster had stopped his morning celebrations. The joys of country living.

Ben loved his home. Colourful hollyhocks grew in abandon, fruit trees scattered their pink and white blossoms across the border of his property, and the fishpond under the trees was home to ducks and frogs alike. It was tranquil, private, and he wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.

“C’mon, Tess, let’s have a stroll before I’m too tired to stand.” An admitted workaholic, he put in long hours, which took their toll.

That night, when he settled into his comfy king-size bed with Tess next to him, he drew the feather duvet over his head, feeling a sense of anticipation about tomorrow. Why? He had no idea.

As he fell asleep, he hugged his pillow close and smiled.

Tomorrow was going to be a good day.

***

“This has got to be the shittiest day on record,” Ben groaned, as he wrestled a large new water pump into place in the currently empty seal enclosure. “Jesus, this thing weighs a fucking ton.”

“Keep pushing,” puffed Hemingway Dube, Ben’s colleague and best friend. His full lips were pushed back from his teeth in a white snarl as he strained to hold the pump in place while Ben anchored it. “I don’t want my beautiful black self to become mashed against the concrete, my friend. My girlfriends would cry too much, and there would be much gnashing of teeth.”

He gave a wide grin as Ben managed to get out a snort in between his heavy breathing. “You overestimate yourself, Hem. I’ve seen your girlfriends, and I think they’ll hold a party. Finally, they’ll be able to get together and rag on what a two-timer you were.”