Divine Intervention


Hi, I’m Richey Davis and this is the truly amazing story of my day.

Have you ever been ‘singing’ a tune in your head, only to turn on the radio and hear that very same song being played over the airwaves? Bizarre I know, but that was how my day started. The song, ‘Don’t Marry Her’ by the Beautiful South had invaded my dream sleep and lodged itself so firmly in my awakening brain as I moved groggily between bedroom and bathroom that, by the kitchen, I was singing it aloud.

As songs go it was quite apt, given my particular circumstances, a wry smile at the acerbic lyrics that spilled from my lips. But then to flick on the radio and immediately hear the self same song blaring out stopped me dead in my tracks, mouth agape, a shiver running down my spine. At the time I had little idea what the incident foretold, dismissing it as pure coincidence.

After the events of the previous day, to say I needed a boost was an understatement. Not only had I managed to lose my job, have my car stolen and throw away a grand playing cards, I’d been dumped by my girlfriend just as I was on the verge of proposing.

Being fired I could handle. Unhappy in my job for a good six months and constantly on the lookout for something better, it could well do me a favour in the long run. The theft of the black XR3i was harder to take, more for sentimental reasons than monetary. The last link to my rapidly eroding youth, it had been my most faithful companion for nearly two decades. The loss of the £1,000 I really could do without, given my newfound unemployment, though hopefully the insurance payout would just about cover the debt.

So whilst they were irksome losses, they were not terminal. Unlike the fourth and final indignity when Debbie, my girlfriend of three years, informed me that I was history. I had a week to pack my things and get the hell out of her life and, no, she didn’t want to discuss it. So not only did I be lose the lover I’d considered spending the rest of my life with, but the roof over my head too.

As bad days went, yesterday had been the worst ever in thirty-five years on earth.

* * *

Still in a dressing gown as the Beautiful South serenaded my broken heart, I glanced despairingly at the mound of unpaid bills that were a major contributory factor in the break-up. Okay, I should have spent less time in the pub and the bookies, a lot less money too, but that was part of my cheeky chappie appeal, wasn’t it?

As the song on the radio, my song, came to an all-too-abrupt end, I sighed whimsically for the past, craving a nice cup of tea. Searching desperately in the fridge for milk, the telltale cereal bowl on the draining board did not bode well. Sure enough, next to it stood the empty carton. Crap, Debbie’s daughter Shannon had used the last of the milk on her cornflakes. In my current state of body and mind, the prospect of a ten-minute walk to the shops held little appeal. “Give me a break,” I pleaded, looking skyward.

It was then that the doorbell rang and I pursed my lips in surprise. Tugging the front of the dressing gown together, I trudged off down the hall, trying to introduce some positive thoughts into the malaise. Perhaps some nymphomaniac blonde who wanted to shag the life out of me stood on the other side of the door or, failing that, the milkman. I smiled inwardly, at least my legendary sense of humour prevailed.

As the door came open in my hand I was forced to do a double-take. Did wishes really come true? Had I not just asked for…? Standing on the step, bathed in sunshine, was possibly the sexiest blonde I’d seen outside of the movies. My eyes dropped in deference at this rare beauty. In open-toe red and white sandals, she was all legs, legs that seemed to go on forever, until a pair of skimpy yellow hotpants intervened.

My eyes elevated past the crotch, an outline of pussy just visible, to settle on a pair of boobs that were to die for. Pleasantly conical with hard thumb-sized nipples that pressed enthusiastically at a tight white tank top, they jiggled as she shifted position.

After those other treasures, it stood to reason that her looks might not add up, but none of it. This indeed was my lucky day. She had large and expressive egg-white eyes were populated with piercing blue irises, a small aesthetically pleasing nose and what can only be described as blowjob lips. It was a perfect combination the geeks from Weird Science would have struggled to better. But to top things off nicely, her hair was a shoulder length sun-bleached blonde. Wow.

Shaking my head to ensure it wasn’t a dream, I noticed she was holding a cup, whilst smiling reticently, lips pouting like a goldfish. “Hi, I’m Zara, I just moved in next door. I know this, um, sounds a little corny,” she began with a nervous yet endearing giggle to her voice, “but can I borrow some sugar?”

The oldest pickup in the book, I had to smile at the irony and of my own plight, thinking quickly on my feet. “Tell you what, Zara, I’ll trade my sugar for a drop izmir escort of your milk.”

She smiled back, a beautiful angelic sight. “Well why don’t you bring your sugar next door,” she added, handing over the cup.

“I’ll be two minutes,” I replied, hoping beyond hope that she was alone.

* * *

Well not only was she alone, but ALONE, I learned, after the cup of tea I’d yearned for was quickly followed by her life story. Recently divorced, she confided, she was making a fresh start in a new neighbourhood. Astounding as it was to believe, there was some guy out there crazy enough to reject this exquisite beauty. His loss, my gain, I thought, getting way ahead of myself.

I noticed that a few boxes in the hall still needed to be unloaded and, anxious for an excuse to spend some more time in her company, I enquired: “Can I give you a hand with anything while I’m here?”

Zara contemplated the offer before consenting: “Yeah okay, I could do with a strong man to help with some of the heavier stuff.”

Subconsciously I found myself flexing my muscles. “I’m Richey, by the way.

“Hi Richey, pleased to meet you,” she acknowledged.

As we carefully transported a cumbersome mirror with a chunky gothic gold frame up the stairs, I couldn’t help but look down Zara’s tank top as it lowered at the neck to reveal her firm breasts. No bra, the nipples nonetheless remained intriguingly out-of-sight, nestled in the front. A silver dolphin pendant dangled in the cleavage, focusing my attention and my cock responded by upping a notch, coming to rest uncomfortably against the crotch of my jeans.

With a little huffing and puffing and several furtive glances, we managed to haul the hefty artefact upstairs, both stopping on the landing to wipe forearms across clammy brows. Manoeuvring the mirror through the door, we entered an airy bedroom that seemed to come straight out of Wuthering Heights or some other period piece.

The four-poster bed creaked as Zara sat, bemoaning her lack of fitness. I’d beg to differ; from here she looked fit as fuck. The beauty pouted those bee-stung lips before disclosing ruefully that she would be turning thirty in a fortnight’s time. What a perfect age, I thought. Sexy, single and a woman of the world, could it actually get any better? And could this really be happening to me after the endless shit of the previous day?

Next I helped transport a set of bedside drawers, once more savouring the opportunity to gaze down on her breast tops that were glazed in a light film of perspiration from our exertions. That was followed by a stereo system, upon delivery of which just a single box remained.

As I lifted it single-handedly in a macho manner, I couldn’t help but notice the ten-inch pink ribbed dildo that rolled from side-to-side. Zara reddened when she realised the cause of my little chuckle. But then the downstairs telephone rang to spare further blushes. “Ooh, the first caller at my new house,” Zara observed with a smile before excusing herself.

Hmm, I’d love to know what you’re all about, Zara, I said to myself as I breached the stairs and entered her bedroom once more. Perching on the edge of the huge bed, my eyes were drawn to a photo wallet jammed beneath the dildo. I knew I shouldn’t, but other people’s pictures were so intriguing and Zara some enigma. “Oh my,” I gasped as the top snap revealed my new neighbour on all fours clad in a rubber cat suit, slits cut at the breasts.

Flicking through anxiously, the next revealed what appeared to be Zara tied to the bed by her wrists and ankles, a ball-gag in her mouth, stretched like a starfish in just bra, panties and an eye mask. A third photo showed her belly being caressed with a cat o’ nine tails. Subsequent ones revealed a series of welts and the first spot of arousal on the front her panties.

I swallowed hard, absorbed in the elicit collection. Shuffling through the remainder, Zara posed alternately in various states of dress, both with men and women in outrageous fetish gear, holding whips, being restrained with chains and thoroughly enjoying the whole masquerade. Hearing footsteps on the stairs, quickly I placed the wallet back beneath Mr Pink. Hopefully his days were numbered.

I stood, trying not to look too guilty and was in actual fact aroused beyond relief. Those were the sorts of things I fantasised about regularly but which Debbie would never ever contemplate. In a way it felt like I’d lost out.

“Oh yeah,” Zara said, almost as an afterthought as she ushered me downstairs and to the front door. “I’m throwing a housewarming party tonight, nothing special, just a few friends. Would love if you could make it, and bring your girlfriend.”

“We’re, um, not together any more.”

Was that a sparkle in her eyes?

Oh thank you Lord, I thought, a guilty glance skyward as I wandered away in a daze. Now if only my finances were as easy to fix…

Well would you believe it? Barely mersin escort the other side of the gate, suddenly I was accosted by fair-weather friend and long time debtor, Bobby Noble, or Bobby No-balls as he was better known. One of those debts that had dragged on so long I’d forgotten how it had arisen in the first place, it had been unofficially written-off ages ago. Surely it was too much to expect, wasn’t it?

Well no actually, it wasn’t. Thrusting a fistful of mullah into my grasp, he said something about a yankee coming up on the horses. With that he was gone, wishing me luck. Not that I needed any, it seemed. I pondered matters: first Zara, now this. For a brief moment it crossed my mind that some sort of divine intervention was afoot. Not being a religious man, however, I readily dismissed it.

Seeing Debbie’s 18-year old redhead daughter Shannon sashay into view like an ill wind brought me back to earth with a bump. We’d hardly seen eye-to-eye since Debbie moved me in a year or so back and an air of tension always seemed to prevail even in the most minor of situations. She resented having me around and I loathed the way she was able to manipulate her mother so easily. Well, at least one good thing had come of Debbie’s decision to dump me: I’d be seeing the last of this stuck-up little bitch. “You still here?” she spat like a venomous snake.

“I’ll be gone soon enough,” I responded, trying not to rise to the bait. “Aren’t you supposed to be at school?”

The spoiled brat tossed back her auburn hair and sneered. “Mind your own fucking business, loser.”

Well I was only human and hearing that sort of taunt coming from a teenager’s mouth, when I really didn’t need it, naturally enraged me. I raised a hand to slap her, pulling back only at the last minute. Shannon flinched yet stood her ground, staring me down, arms folded across her chest. “Go on then, I dare you and you see what happens,” she glowered.

I fought to bring under control the seething anger. “It’s the least you deserve,” I said with disdain. “Maybe if your mother had been firmer…”

Shannon took a step towards the gate, the cockiness seeming to abate, issuing the kind of look that I couldn’t readily translate. Either way, my newfound menace succeeded in silencing her for the first time ever, no attempt to get in the last word before she hurried past and up the path to the door. A little lingering glance over her shoulder, she slipped inside the house. I rubbed my chin thoughtfully, electing to hold the thought for later. A habitually mild-mannered fellow, I wasn’t quite sure what had come over me. Maybe Zara’s fetish pics, along with the kinky thoughts of what I’d like to do to her, had twisted my brain momentarily. For now, however, there were more pressing matters to take care of.

Without my precious car, I was forced to walk into town, though it was a sweltering hot day, the English summer at its zenith. The run of good fortune at the forefront of my mind, passing the newsagents I decided to test the theory with a scratchcard. It’d be nice to win the ten grand jackpot, I thought, as the edge of the coin scraped over the boxes. My handiwork revealed three stars. Whoa. Not quite the jackpot I’d wished for, £200 was about as much as they’d pay out over the counter. Maybe this was indeed going to be my day after all. I intended to find out.

* * *

With £700 in my pocket that, never in my wildest dreams had I envisaged, was now just £300 short of the debt to my arch nemesis Ronnie Carver. In my current vein of form, a retrieval mission was definitely on the cards. Heading along with urgency to The Crown, a dingy little pub on the junction of Water Street and Broadway, it was time to enter a twilight world where day and night intertwined, where cards was played around the clock and where girls shed their clothes at lunchtime for a motley collection of lowlifes.

At mid morning The Crown was akin to a late night disco, only the choking fumes that hung in mushroom clouds were not simulated by a smoke machine. Availing myself of a pint of lager from Saskia, one the few decent things about the pub, I made the usual punter / barmaid small talk. A pretty looking but cold-hearted bottle-blonde student originally from Eastern Europe, she dispensed pints until lunchtime came around, when she dispensed with her clothes. A warm smile from the ice maiden took me somewhat aback. Maybe the bush telepath had forwarded news of my recent bachelorhood, or maybe it was something less explicable to do with the inner workings of the female mind.

Either way, I hadn’t time to dwell upon it as there were bigger fish to fry. Edging away from the bar to hover on the fringes of the card game, I made furtive eye contact with Ronnie, Jonesey, Mac and Shorty, the usual suspects. I stood to watch, sipping at the pint for a quarter of an hour before Shorty made enough money to cover the weekend’s drinking and gracefully gave up his seat. To show willing, sakarya escort immediately I repaid half of the debt to Ronnie, counting out to £500 which left me £200 to speculate with. Now to see if my early luck could hold, a brief glance skyward.

As ever, the first few hands with a new player at the table were cagy, like boxers sparring. A few quid changed hands but nothing of note. A second pint was needed and Saskia obliged, making a point of addressing me in her broken English: “How you do, Ree-chee, you win yes?”

Unless I was mistaken, she deliberately brushed a breast across my cheek as she bent to place the frothing pint on the table before me.

Five more minutes of sparring, finally the beer took hold and things started to loosen up with Ronnie announcing: “A fiver blind.”

For those unfamiliar with the game of three-card brag, the novelty is the ‘blind’ element. Players elect when to look at their cards depending on the size of their balls, with those not looking deemed to be playing ‘blind’. Since a blind player can never be seen or raised by an open player, opening up too early can be a real headache because to stay in the hand, open players are obliged to pay double the blind. Of course, blind players could be holding zilch, but a mid pair soon shrinks when forced to pay double. And that was exactly what was revealed as I lifted the cards and smoothed them apart: two eights. A marginal call, I tossed in a crisp tenner more in hope than confidence.

When Jonesey threw in a speculative fiver blind, there were two blind players, he and Ronnie, playing against my open hand. The betting returned to Ronnie and he announced a raise to £20 blind. That meant that to stay involved I had to chuck in £40, something I did grudgingly given the lack of strength in my hand. Jonesey picked up his cards, looked them over, and decided it wasn’t worth paying almost a week’s worth of incapacity benefit to stay in.

Ronnie gave me the once over, assessing his erstwhile opponent whilst chewing on a cigar and exhaling a thick canopy of grey smoke overhead. “Okay I’ll take a look,” he mumbled, clearly disgruntled that the raise hadn’t managed to push me out.

I watched closely as he palmed the cards and looked. As ever there was no kind of tell volunteered on those calm features. “A hundred quid open,” he announced nonchalantly, letting the bet do the talking instead.

I raised my eyebrows. £100 was pretty much what was left in my pocket and a pair of eights really wasn’t worth risking it for. He needed to have a weaker pair or be on the bluff. Damn, I wished it were the prial and not just the vulnerable pair in my hand. Now three eights would take some beating. A final look before folding, as the cards fanned out in my hand, I had to look again as the third card I was convinced was a nine was revealed as an eight. My God, I did have the prial after all.

A glance to the ceiling in silent thanks, I agonised how to extract as much money as possible from the situation. No longer did I want Ronnie to have a weak hand, but one that might attract a call or, heaven forbid, a raise. I chucked in the last hundred in my pocket, accompanied by the announcement: “And another monkey on top. I’ll owe it.”

Thankfully my credit was good.

“Five hundred quid more!” Jonesey gasped, his ferret like eyes darting from me to Ronnie and back again as things suddenly took an interesting turn.

Ronnie looked me up and down, deferring the decision. He knew that if I had nothing in my hand that was the sort of bet I’d make to try to steal the pot. Or he might just have a real monster hand himself and be trying to get me to commit more by acting unsure. He gave it a couple of minutes before announcing: “Okay, let’s not fuck about, let’s make it a grand.”

A rumble ran around the three other guys at the table. Pots like this came around about as often as Halley’s Comet.

Unlike me, Ronnie always had the money on him, digging a lump of notes from his jacket pocket and tossing it in. The centre of the table resembled something out of the World Series of Poker. Now I faced a dilemma, my confidence having drained like a deflating balloon. Three eights was good, but far from guaranteed to win when faced with another £1000 to call.

My whole body was shaking, beyond the point of caring about giving away a tell. Fuck it, I’ve a prial of eights, I told my wavering conscience. Win and there was over three grand in the pot, lose and I owed £1500. “Okay, I’ll see you,” I confirmed, heart fluttering.

Ronnie turned over J-Q-K of hearts, an awesome hand.

He grinned, clearly expecting to win. Yet a running flush was no match for my prial in the game of three-card brag. His face dropped as I made the revelation, still unsure in my mind where that last eight had come from. The others at the table blew hard, eyes bulging, and would still be talking about the hand for months if not years to come.

As I scooped in the money, it dawned on me that some sort of divine intervention really was taking place. It was too much just to be pure luck. I began to wonder just how far I could go to exploit the situation before it ran out, and was about to find out. “That grand and a half I owe you says you can’t beat me at pool,” stated Ronnie, anxious to get his money back.

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