Read Ten Storey Love Song for Free Online Page A

regrets it, but then Angelo’s hands are all over her neck and hips and tits and arse, and suddenly she’s enjoying it. Perhaps Ellen’s a selfish bitch, but surely if you’re desperate for an orgasm you’re entitled to have one even if it’s not from your boyfriend. Even the feel of Angelo’s big fat tongue in her mouth gets her all flustered – Johnnie’s got a bit of a pointy one. ‘Let’s go in the bedroom,’ Angelo whispers, all his hot breath giving Ellen a heat-wave. She feels jittery and pissed and lurved-up, and she nods and practically drags the boy herself to the double bed. They strip each other off, Ellen stroking his knob through the straight trousers while she gets her Umbro shirt ripped off. She kneels topless on the covers then gives Angelo a blow-job, biting him through his Y-fronts then slipping them off and slurping up his big red-ender. Angelo’s got a much larger cock than Johnnie, and she tugs it with two hands, tasting all the clear stuff coming out. It’s brilliant just to treat each other like animals for one night, but when Ellen’s knickers get whipped off and Angelo frigs her beautifully with two fingers she turns to glass and melts. On top of the pill she’s also on the Pill, and she kisses Angelo’s buffalo skin and mouth as she crawls into the girl-on-top position. Usually it’s uncomfortable starting sex with Johnnie in this formation, but as Ellen squeezes Angelo’s dick and slowly lowers herself round it she’s absolutely dripping wet. Speaking of drips, two floors down Bobby the Artist still can’t sleep. He sits upright in bed next to silent Georgie, thinking much too deeply about a strange dripping in the kitchen. Drip! All the money’s run out now for drugs and food and booze, but that still hasn’t stopped his mind acting strange. As he sits with his back up against the bronze headrest, Bobby glares at the opposite wall, hearing an excruciating weeny plop about every four or five seconds. Each drip feels like a depth charge going off in his skull. Drip! Is he imagining it? Outside the weather’s humid, and even though he’s boiling Bobby the Artist slips on his yellow and blue argyle to go and sort out the kitchen. He leaves Georgie dozing with no covers on and just her cerulean-with-pink-trim knickers, softly banging his sweaty painty feet onto carpet then Drip! onto linoleum. Bobby looks a mess (raggy hair, skinny legs under the argyle and his knob out), and perhaps the insomnia’s down to drug withdrawal rather than innocent drips, but when it’s 4.14am no one likes to get Chinese water tortured. Drip! Dawn’s breaking, and for a bit Bobby gets distracted by the beautiful purple steamy sunrise stretching its rays under the drawn net curtains. He gets mesmerised by a lovely little laser beam, striking through a wee gap in the window, but then Drip! the drips are back, and louder. Louder! Bobby the Artist rubs his sore bonce. Drip!! Where to start? The taps: Bobby and Georgie made a huge spag bol this evening with cheesy bread and Parmesan on top and all that gourmet shite, and the Artist knocks down all the dirty dishes to check the hot and cold taps but the sink’s silent except for the big annoying crash he just made. The freezer: They defrosted the freezer the other week, and on the off-chance they messed it up Bobby checks whether it’s leaking, but there’s just rock-hard pizzas and mince and ice cubes and icicles hanging down like they’ve been growing a mini North Pole in the kitchen. For a bit he crouches and stares at the gritty frost and smoke in case it does something, but it doesn’t. The kettle: Georgie likes cups of tea (with four sugars in them). She boils the kettle at least three times a day, and Bobby examines the adjacent wall and ceiling in case there’s been a build-up of condensation and now it’s decided to start dripping. But no. Antagonised, Bobby stands all huffy-and-puffy with his hands on his hips (a classic pissed-off