Return to Shangri La
The next time we went to Shangri La, which I'd started calling the Caravan Park, because it sounded exotic – it's the title of an old film my Mum used to watch on TV, it was usually on on a Sunday afternoon, and she would get me and Stace on the sofa, with cushions and blankets, a box of Black Magic and a couple of packs of Cleenex, cos she always ended up bawling her eyes out and when the credits had run she'd smother us with kisses and say “Wasn't that good? There's nothing beats a guid greet!” And then she's get into action making the Sunday Tea – which was usually a roast of some kind that's been in the oven for hours, and she's be peeling spuds and carrots and sprouts while Stace and me got the table set, with a nice clean tablecloth and all the condiments and cutlery, water jugs and glasses and, if we still had some left from Christmas, Crackers! Mum always bought too many and Dad usually pitched in with a couple of dozen from some WEA Bazaar he'd been to, so they could last well into February.
 
Anyway, the next time we went, George gave me some clothes he'd bought for me – sexy underwear and stockings and LBDs and continued my education. He said it was important that I develop my skills through regular practice and he would be adding extras each time we came here. I was pleased with this, because if George was spending money and time to make me a better lover, then there was no fear of him dumping me. That was always the unmentionable, unthinkable thought, that crept into my head like a little worm, eating its way through my brains, twisting and turning and tunnelling around until one day, I was convinced, it would appear, out of one of my ears, or down my nostril or from behind an eyeball! This fear was real to me. Realer than any others I'd had. Realer than me! I suppose I now only thought of myself, my self, in connection with George. Lots of girls describe themselves as so-and-so's Girlfriend or Wife, then little so-and-so's Mum. We don't have an independent identity, always someone else's. So the thought of 'not' being George's Girl, Lover, Slave, whatever, was utterly devastating. I could not imaging how I would feel if it ever happened. So I promised myself that I had to work hard, learn everything that George taught me, do everything he asked – or, as my Master - could simply demand.
 
But all this time it had been just perfecting my various ways of bringing him to orgasm – by jerking him off, giving Head, or being shagged. Either in my mouth or my See You Next Tuesday.
And I must have been doing it right, because George was getting better at holding back, taking his time, and I believe he wanted to give me greater pleasure in this way. I don't know if I ever came myself. But George always did and if it was in my mouth, I had to swallow, that was very important. Sometimes I was back for tea, and other times, if he was feeling particularly energized, it might be eight or nine in the evening. But I never stayed out all night – anyway, I had school next morning.
     But came the time when I wouldn't be back at all. It was a Saturday – George was taking a rare day off and I had told my Mum and Dad that I was staying over at another girl's, cos her sister was getting married and we were to carry posies and go to the Reception. I'd be home sometime on Sunday afternoon, and they said that was okay – they trusted me, because I was always back when I said I would be.
     George had said that he thought one of his friends might be there today and, sure enough, when we pulled into the Park, there was a black Jaguar sitting beside the Blue Caravan, two spaces along from us. George suggested I get into ours and put the kettle on, while he spoke to Graham. He was about five minutes, and when he returned he was looking very pleased with himself. “We're going to have visitors,” he said. And I felt my stomach lurch. I said I needed to go to the loo and hurried over to the Utility Block where I emptied my stomach down the toilet and kept retching and heaving till there wasn't anything left. And I stayed there, kneeling with my head on the cold white rim. Shivering. It was George’s voice that stirred me – through the door, asking if I was okay. I told him I'd been sick and didn't feel very well. He opened the door and helped me up, wiped my face with some tissue and took me back to our Van. He made me a cup of tea and washed my face and I brushed my teeth, twice, to get rid of the taste in my mouth.








When I began to feel human again, I apologised for being unwell and said I got a shock at the thought of meeting other people, in case they knew me and might tell my parents about George and me, George laughed at this. He had a deep throaty kind of laugh, which gurgled and made you want to join in. He told me that none of his friends were the kind of people to gossip about each other, They had made a pact when they decided to buy the site and the Caravans, that anything that happened here, stayed here, and that there would be no telling tales out of school. And he promised me: “You've always been able to trust me, Teri, haven't you?” I nodded, “Well, you can trust me now, can't you?” and I nodded again.
     Just then, there was a knock at the door and as it swung open, a face appeared and said, “Hullo, you two – may we come in?”
     It was Dr Montgomery – our GP!