Grovel Greg, Grovel Part 2

A continuation of Grovel Greg, Grovel - Greg moves to London.

It is 1976. Greg is a shy and naive 19 year-old, who has decided to take his chances in the big city.

He must pitch his wits against racism, unemployment, and people who want to take advantage of his inexperience.

But things don’t go well, and by the Autumn, he has disappeared from the face of the Earth.

Or has he?

In Part 2 Greg moves to London, and takes-up residence in the strange lodging house, "Turbot".

Part 3 is set in the present day, as his sister sets out to discover what really happened.

One chapter will be published on Movellas each day, until the story reaches its gripping conclusion.


5. Live Combat

Greg is nearer to sex than ever before. He is conscious of this when he gets-up on Saturday morning. He tries to banish the prospect of his second date with Leomi from his mind, at least for a while. It is a long time until he is due to set-out for Brixton, and he wants to get some value out of the day before he is overcome by anxiety. It promises to be a hot day. The early-morning coolness at the start of a hot day is somehow warmer than the early-morning coolness at the start of a miserable day.

            Greg potters around, trying to relax. He wonders whether any of his house mates are around: they are not. They must be either still in bed, or out. He has a cup of tea. He wanders to the shop to buy a paper. People look different today- they are in T-shirts, ready to enjoy the good weather. And they drift-along, floating on the warmth, rather than grimly stomping the pavement like they normally do. Early summer '76, thinks Greg, and already we're on our second spell of good weather. 1976- and Greg was born in 1957. Greg plays-around with the two dates in his head. '57, '76. They seem a long time apart. It has taken him nearly two decades to lose his virginity (assuming that he does). For a while, he ponders the moral aspects of his plan- of 'making love' to a woman he does not love, of not being married to her, of not having introduced her to his parents first, and of crossing the racial divide. What would the Baptists think of him? The Baptists with their old-fashioned Sunday Best suits and their funny ways of speaking- what would they make of Greg with his sticky-up hair and his plan to shag a black girl?

            But the rest of society, the kids, the scene, the 70s, and the 60s that came before them, have all coalesced to out-weigh his doubts, and convince Greg to carry-through his plan. In fact, these things have won the day easily, so much so that Greg does not formally consider the pros and cons either way; his plans seem the natural course of events to him. "Afterall, she is a brunette," thinks Greg.

It is 6.58 pm. Greg is standing infront of the house in which Leomi's flat is located. He is very nervous, and thinks he may be about to have diarrhea. He is wearing a 'proper' shirt (ie with a collar) in nylon with a restrained design of little brown flower-like shapes. It is his best going-out shirt. He has small bottle of whisky in his hand. To get to this place, Greg had wallked through Brixton. It is a warm evening, and people had had their windows open. Reggae music flowed-out onto the street, the loud bassy kind that Greg had heard at Derrick's party. There had been blacks hanging around in Railton Road, and other streets nearby. They had looked at him with hard brown eyes. One had shouted "Honkey!" at him. But he was an old man, like Clive, and he looked like a drinker. The younger blacks stood silently in groups and stared at him in the manner which some find threatening. But Greg knows black people, so he is not worried. He just walked-by, and they let him go on. He had seen Olly en route too, talking with the smartly-dressed black man who was with Shaccara at Derrick's party. But Greg didn't ponder this too long, and now he is outside Leomi's flat.

            He rings on the door bell. In fact, there are two bells (which Greg does not realise)- one for each flat- he has flukily picked the right one, and Leomi lets him in. In to what? Greg cannot see, it is so dark. He cannot even tell if it is Leomi, as she does not say anything- just mechanically lets him through the door as if he was here to mend the washing machine. Leomi opens another door, and they are in her flat. It is dark in here too, though less-so than in the hallway. And it is hot. Sure, it had been warm outside, but airy. Inside it is stuffy, and Greg's lungs battle to get enough air. Despite the gloom, Greg builds the impression that Leomi's flat is better than his accommodation; it does not have that dog-eared student house feel that Turbot  has. Leomi has furniture and carpets that are not threadbare, and ornaments. Greg wonders how a single woman can exert enough economic power to acquire accommodation which is better than his.

            He gives Leomi the whisky. They sit on the sofa, and start to drink it. Leomi is wearing a long black dress which is nipped-in at the waist. Even Greg can see that this is different to the kind of dress she usually wears. It makes her look tall and fairly slinky. Greg tries to make conversation.

            "Which island do you come from?" Leomi blinks.

            "I come from Ganna." She says,in her deep voice. Greg does not know where Ganna is, so he asks whether it is one of the smaller islands.

            "Ganna is in Africa." The penny drops. Ghana. The country that Greg pronounces 'Gahrnar'. And, without meaning to, he says this aloud- "Gahrnar"- before realising how upper-class-twit his pronounciation of the letter a must sound to anyone not originating from the south-east corner of England. Greg apologises, and they drink some more whisky. Greg still cannot see how one, anyone, in fact, is supposed to get from the realm of a polite chat to the rude stuff.

            "But I come from a small community," she says, as if in attempt to dilute Greg's mistake of calling Ghana a small island. "Small communities are strong;" she continues, "are you strong, Greg?" At this, Leomi pinches Greg's leg, just above the knee, presumably to see whether it is strong or not. This startles Greg, and he almost springs out of the chair. But Leomi keeps a strong grip- very strong, in fact- Greg cannot believe how powerful her fingers are. Through his nylon trousers he can feel her finger tips digging into and under his flesh, practically separating it from the bone. Then, somewhat to Greg's alarm, Leomi begins to slide her grip (without loosening it) up his thigh. "If she keeps going, she'll be touching my willy," thinks Greg, and a surge of excitement pulses through his groin. Leomi senses this, and promptly stands-up in front of Greg. Still unsmiling, she unhitches a clasp at the back of her neck, and lets the dress fall. She is wearing a black bra that all but merges with the colour of her skin. As her dress falls further, he assumes that her panties are the same colour. But as he looks more closely he is shocked to see that she is not wearing any. 'Must be a cultural thing', he thinks. Greg looks at her as her dress falls into a pile around her ankles. She is standing in front of him, virtually naked, unsmiling. Nothing he sees is unattractive. She is not fat. Her flesh is taut. Her bush is quite tidy. The only trouble is, he does not desire her. The initial surge of passion that he had felt a few moments ago has gone. Now, he does not find her sexy. There is something un-girly, unyielding, unalluring about her- in Greg's eyes.

            Panic begins to overwhelm Greg. He is with a near-naked woman: he should be aroused, but he is not. Maybe she is too dark, and some deep-rooted genetic mechanism is deterring Greg from breeding with her. Perhaps the pasty-faced boys from Suffolk are designed to end up with the mousy blondes of Suffolk and that's all there was to it. Or maybe it is something more personal than that. Maybe he is gay. Yes, that's it. Gay. It would explain everything, why he has not had a girl in nineteen years, why he can't do it with Leomi. "Oh please don't let me be gay" prays Greg. His whole world is built around a hetrosexual premise. His character, his humour, his aspirations. And it would mean that he would be having sex with horrible little shits like Olly, instead of beautiful creatures like Nadia. He decides to play for time. He hopes the urge might return shortly. There are things that he can be getting on with- kissing, hugging, fondling, that kind of thing- which do not require firmness.

            So Greg starts to fondle Leomi. He does so with an air of idle curiosity. He is not sure which part of her to fondle first. Ideally, he would like to start somewhere moderately sexy (to show willing) without diving straight into the prime orogenous zones. He reaches out and gently touches the flesh of her thighs with his finger tips. It is firm and warm and quite smooth. Greg notices how white his fingers look compared to her skin. Somewhat to his alarm, Leomi's face suddenly breaks-into a broad smile. Then she takes-off her bra and lies back on the sofa, to make further areas of her body accessible to Greg. Greg is not sure what he is supposed to do next. Surely he can't be too far away from the sex bit but he is still not aroused. He decides to carry-on playing for time. He continues with his policy of stroking her skin. By now, Leomi has her arms above her head, causing her breasts to point pertly towards the ceiling. She fidgets on the sofa, and her breasts quiver slightly, somehow emphasising her womanly-ness. It is as if the breasts are talking to Greg- “I am a woman, Greg. One hundred percent woman: not a skinny little girl like Nadia or Shaccara, but a real woman with woman's bits who's gonna let you take her and wants to be SATISFIED!”  He is horrifed at that thought.

            Greg is clean out of ideas. Pathetically, he decides to stroke her stomach. He does this with the backs of his fingers as his finger tips are sweaty through anxiety and the heat in the room. His shirt is clinging to his back and his armpits are moist. He suspects his sticky-up hair has started to wilt under the influence of perspiration. By contrast, Leomi's flesh is dry.

            Leomi sits-up and grabs Greg's hand. She leads him to another room which is lit by a shaft of sunlight which streams through a gap between the partially-drawn curtains. The room is dominated by a large bed. "You can take your clothes off now," she states. Greg is pleased to get his damp shirt off, and can contemplate having no trousers or socks on, but he is petrified of taking his pants off. He does not want Leomi to see his limp little willy. Meanwhile the naked Leomi has clambered beneath the sheets. Greg decides to dive in with his pants still on, before Leomi has the chance to order him to remove them.

            Once in bed, Leomi (somewhat angrily) rips his pants off him, and grabs his willy. "So this is foreplay," thinks Greg. On finding his willy to be lax, Leomi begins to work furiously-away at it with her hand, rubbing it, stretching it and flicking it with her strong fingers. But it fails to respond. Eventually, Leomi gives-up, and turns her back disgustedly on Greg and goes to sleep. Greg, exhausted by anxiety, drifts off into his own sad little sleep.

Meanwhile, back at Turbot, it is getting late. Olly stirs himself from the threadbare sofa in the living room. His trainers pad silently up the stairs, and then he heads along the landing- not to his room, but to Greg's. He eases open Greg's door (Greg doesn't lock his room as Mr Zabbath never gave him a room key), goes in, and begins to rummage through Greg's drawers.

Greg wakes up. He is not sure what the time is, but it is dark in Leomi's room. His body is relaxed and warm. Leomi is still in the bed, still asleep. Greg tries to roll over in bed, but something stops him- it is his penis. It has become long, upright and hard. Greg is thrilled. He sneakily positions himself very close to Leomi's sleeping body, so that his new toy is barely an inch from Leomi's bare bottom. And then he waits. He knows that the slightest movement by Leomi in his direction will bring their bodies into contact. But her first movement is away from him. He follows her. He waits for what feels like hours. Then, at last, she moves towards him, in her sleep. The end of his firm penis presses against Leomi's buttock. She stirs in her sleep. Then she moves again, this time deliberately and skillfully, arranging her bum so that her crack is positioned on the tip of Greg's willy. Then she eases ever-so slightly towards Greg, fine-tuning her position as she does so. Greg eases towards her. Suddenly Greg finds that it feels warm and damp and great. And then he's in- inside a woman! After nineteen years of being a virgin moping around Bury St Edmunds, at last things are begining to go for him. He slides up-and-down inside Leomi; their sideways-on position restraining him from over-vigorous activity, and helping to prolong the fun, for nearly six seconds. And so, in this fashion, the deed is done. Leomi has been fucked. And it was Greg who has fucked her.

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