Always Leave Them Wanting More Read online

  Title Page

  ALWAYS LEAVE THEM WANTING MORE

  by

  Hannah Lockhardt

  Publisher Information

  Always Leave Them Wanting More

  Published in 2013 by Andrews UK Limited

  www.andrewsuk.com

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

  Copyright © Hannah Lockhardt 2013

  The right of Hannah Lockhardt to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Dedication

  For Zoë

  Ready Always

  Screwing is Easy; Comedy is Hard

  Part I

  “And you can stick it up your arse!” Siobhan shrieked, hurling the microphone into the swell of the audience and stalking off the stage with leaden feet.

  Gary rushed into her path, halfway to the packed green room.

  She held up her hand. “Don’t. Just don’t. I know.”

  “Did you hit anyone?” He squeaked.

  “Might have done. Didn’t hear anyone go ‘ow’. Maybe they got lucky.”

  “We’ll send someone out to check. You should probably leave by the emergency exit though, just to be on the safe side.”

  She nodded, momentarily distracted by Ritchie brushing past her to bring the night to a swift close.

  “He’ll sort them.” Gary nodded too, turning away from her and walking back to the box office. Confrontation was far from his remit.

  Comforted by the spontaneous applause she prompted upon entering the green room, Siobhan gave them an exaggerated bow and allowed the other acts to thump her on the back and offer praise and commiserations.

  “At least they’ll remember you.” Viv pointed out. “That girl who threw a mic at the cunts in the fourth row singing ‘Get your tits out’ in an atonal round. You can put it on your posters.”

  “Better than it being the other way round; got glassed twice in my first year, look.” Brian proffered his lower back at an awkward angle and she nodded sympathetically on cue.

  “We’ve all been there, Pet and we’ll all be there again, it’s the way. What doesn’t kill you gives you great material for your next set. Must shoot off now; Babysitter charges a quid for every five minutes past 12 I get back.” Viv kissed her on the cheek and rushed out of the door, followed by most of the others, the Tuesday night line up being semi-professionals with proper day jobs to turn up at come 9am. This meant the bar would be dead, save for students and the odd straggler. Hopefully the singers from earlier would be long gone. Only slightly spooked by the thought; Siobhan retrieved her bag from the top of the lockers and fished for her lippy and a dash of Dutch courage. Mid-application there was a knock at the door and trying to call out “S’open!”, she knocked the tube and streaked Man Trap red across her cheek.

  “Fuck.” She muttered dejectedly as the door opened and Ritchie walked in.

  “Hello Scrappy-Doo.” Then. “War paint for the bus ride home?”

  “Funny. Did the close go alright?” She turned back to the mirror and tried to wipe the smudge away, but only making it look like she had a really bad case of heat rash.

  “Fine. They were shocked, more than anything.”

  “And did I manage to twat the cunt?”

  He laughed. “Sorry, the mic’s pretty fucked though.”

  “Shit. They’re not going to pay me tonight, are they?”

  “Not my place to say, maybe you shouldn’t buy yourself a diamond car just yet.”

  “Thanks for the heads up.” To avoid making eye contact she turned to the coat rack, hunting for her jacket.

  “Going anywhere tonight?”

  “Just home.”

  “Right.”

  “You?”

  “Paperwork.”

  “Serves you right being the compère and promoter of the only club in a thirty mile radius.”

  “I’m a glutton for punishment.” He agreed. “Great set tonight, by the way - until the GBH.”

  “You don’t have to be kind.”

  “I’m not paid to be kind, I’m paid to hire acts that bring in crowds that help us break even. It was a tight ten minutes with maybe five towards the end that need a bit of trimming. And maybe anger management classes.”

  “I’ll work on it.” She promised, secretly thrilled he was taking an interest.

  “Do you have to shoot off now?”

  She considered this. It was reading week. Apart from a scheduled session at the library, her days were wide open.

  “I can give you a lift.” He added, “Buses do get a bit mental and stabby in the early hours. You’re only out past the station, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah,” She replied, surprised he remembered. “Good memory.”

  “Mr Memory, yours truly. Come up to the office, it’s warmer in there.”

  The office was sacred territory - nestled at the back of the building with a comfy sofa and two desks where Gary and Ritchie sat opposite one another glowering and arguing over who should take top billing. Gary’s desk was almost empty; remnants of the week’s lunches in his waste paper basket. Ritchie’s was messier, but still neater than the one in Siobhan’s bedroom which was awash with essays, half-written ideas for acts and ‘inspirational’ newspaper clippings about people with funny names and current affairs.

  The radio was playing softly from his ancient laptop, and the only illumination from there and one desk lamp set on the shelving unit. He was right though, it was a lot warmer.

  “Drink? Got a cheeky bottle of rum around here, somewhere.”

  “Snap.” She waved the miniature from her bag at him.

  “Well, I’ve got glasses.”

  “You win; let me have it.”

  He passed the glass over and they sat on opposite sides of his desk, silent for a moment.

  “You’re really good, Siobhan.” He said finally. “Really good, I can see you going far.”

  “Thanks.” She said, floored.

  “And Gary thinks so too.”

  Gary’s opinion didn’t mean anything, though. Only Ritchie. Ritchie with his brown eyes and authority and knowledge of everything.

  “We both fucking loved the line about castrating your grandmother. Beautiful.”

  She blushed. “It’s stupid.”

  “That’s why it works. Believable stupidity. You’ve got it, Siobhan all you need to do now is control it.”

  “I’m definitely believably stupid.” She smiled, the fire in her throat making her a wee bit bolder. “So what do you want to teach me?”

  It was a loaded question.

  He looked at her thoughtfully.

  “Do you like your last five minutes?”

  “Honestly?”

  “Honestly.”

  “Not as much as I could. It’s rushed. I had a solid ten and when I got offered longer sets, it threw me a bit.”

  He nodded.

  “Happens to all of us. Definitely happened to me. I used to end my set with an audience Q&A. Had to tell a lot
of lies about the size of my cock. Three or four times a night if we had stags and hens in. I wouldn’t recommend that strategy.”

  “No. No one’s going to ask me how big my cock is, are they?”

  “I don’t know, are they?”

  Without thinking she pressed a hand to her crotch and pursed her lips.

  “Definitely a pussy down there.” she nodded, downing the rest of the glass.

  “I expect so.” He replied, his gaze lingering.

  “Maybe I could get my tits out. I’ve already been asked once tonight so it’s clearly something at least some of the public want. When they say ‘get your tits out’” she continued, warming to the subject “When they say that, do they mean, like, all my tits, or just my tits in a bra or what? What’s the protocol there?”

  “All your tits?”

  Nipples on display and stuff. Is that what they want?”

  “Probably, yeah.”

  “Dirty bastards.” Even though as she was thinking it, she felt her skin start prickling, travelling down her arm, down over her stomach and through her legs and cunt, quite matter of factly.

  “So, are you going to teach me how to do an ending then?”

  He finished his drink and slammed the glass down.

  “Yes, yes I am. Stand up.” She did so, and he walked round to her.

  “Are you warm?”

  “Yes.” Siobhan took off her coat. He was wearing a long sleeved t shirt. “And horny.” She added, unexpectedly.

  “Oh.” He said, stumped.

  “Only a bit. And a bit tired. But definitely more horny than tired.” He was very close and very handsome and she’d wanted to fuck him ever since she’d seen him at a gig during Fresher’s week and she hadn’t become a groupie like other girls; she watched him perform and found she wanted to do it to. He had an infectious passion you could absorb from the audience; had been gigging since she was in nappies and he was skipping school to charm reps and get his foot on the ladder. She made the final heats of Student Comedy Fest 2013 and got a commendation and Ritchie offered her five minutes off the back of it.

  Once she’d walked into the green room and he was dressing. She wondered if he remembered, or even knew at all.

  “I think what you’ve got working for you, is the element of surprise. You work with it all through your set, so you can afford to do something shocking at the end, if you want to take the risk.” And he kissed her squarely on the mouth; one of his large hands in the small of her back and the other gently fitted against her chin.

  Shock, mostly. Drunken shock. He broke away as soon as they’d begun.

  “Sorry, sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. Crossed the line, way over the line. Past the line. I’m so sorry, Siobhan-”

  “Why?”

  “How long have you got? Unprofessional mostly.”

  He still had his arms around her, she was reluctant to remind him in case he let go.

  “I don’t think so, not really.”

  She kissed his cheek.

  “Is that unprofessional?”

  “Depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On what comes next.”

  Siobhan cocked her head, and raised her finger to his lower lip, tracing the fullness in silence.

  “Kiss me again, properly this time.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Just do it.”

  He paused, leaned towards her, was as close as close can be when she came out with

  “How many comics does it take to change a light bulb?”

  “What?”

  She pulled him to her, parting his lips with her own for her tongue to follow, her arms around his neck and curling in the hair that brushed his collar. Closer than before she could feel him - or what she thought, hoped was him - solid and pulsing against her belt, and her own body reacting.

  With his mouth relocated to her ear, she heard him muttering,

  “Are you sure?”

  “About what? This? Yes.”

  “Ok,”

  She moved one hand to his chest, briefly feeling his heartbeat under her fingertips before the hand shifted lower to his belt buckle where with impressive dexterity she unfastened it and unhooked the first two loops.

  “Sure about this, too.” she replied into his neck, falling to her knees in what felt like a surprisingly elegant fashion and finishing the job neatly. She heard his breath catching above her as she unzipped, slid her hands into the belt loops and pulled them away with her mouth pressed close to the widening gap, breathing into the fabric and making it damper, through the warmth against her lips.

  “So,” she murmured, “That joke you do about your genital topiary...”

  “Don’t take the piss, Siobhan.”

  “Sarcy.” Down came the underwear with it’s dark spots of excitement, and there he was, just as she’d expected, only more real.

  “And sarcy boys don’t get nice blow jobs.”

  “Is that a fact?” he asked, placing his hand on the top of her head and very gently pulling her towards him.

  “Mmf.” She replied as the tip slid easily into her mouth.

  “And is your mouth writing cheques that it can’t cash, Siobhan?”

  “She shook her head, concentrating on working her tongue around the sizeable erection in it, her hands rigid against his hips, and alarmed to find him swelling still as she worked.

  “No, this won’t do, get up.” he said finally.

  She stood up abruptly and wiped her mouth.

  “I’m sorry, sometimes it’s hard to gauge what someone wants - different strokes for different folks, right?”

  He shook his head, and took her hand, leading her with some difficulty to the sofa and sitting her down.

  “Less pressure on the knees?”

  “Stop it! You’re a good comic, Siobhan but do you always treat fucks like works in progress gigs?”

  “Sorry.”

  With his hands on his hips, and his erection still prominent, he shook his head.

  “Stop apologising!” he added, sitting down next to her, and kissing her, slipping one hand inside the neck of her t shirt and feeling her through a stupidly bolstered bra. Immediately calmed, with her free hand she took hold of his cock and stroked it firmly as he felt her up.

  “Do you want to take it off?”

  She nodded, loosening her grip only to peel the t shirt from her shoulders and taking her bra with it for ease before returning to her job. Sometimes the other acts would make gags about her ‘overinflated chest’, the Barbie doll comparison came up quite a lot, as she was very blonde, only Barbies don’t have short legs or wear glasses. Siobhan noticed Ritchie was motionless, almost assessing them in his palm and for one split second she wondered if he’d ever seen a woman topless before, and if he hadn’t, did it bother her enough to stop? (It didn’t). She felt him grasp her nipple between his fingers and pinch it sharply.

  “Ow!” She shrieked, a little too loudly.

  “It can’t have hurt that much.” He countered.

  “It did. Kiss it better.” She pouted.

  Grinning, he took her hand from his privates and lowered his head, kissing the swell of her breast which made her giggle when his stubble tickled the flesh, and nudged her backwards so she was lying more comfortably. As he kissed his way back up her body, she knotted her fingers in his hair and pondered aloud.

  “Do you think this will ruin our working relationship?”

  “Hmm? It shouldn’t do.”

  “Harder.” She called, feeling his teeth. “No, but it might. If someone finds out, or thinks I’m getting better slots or more offers or something. Or that you only told me I was good to get into my knickers.”

  “No one’s turned on by se
lf-deprecating shit, Siobhan. You’re good at what you do. Quite separately, you’re hot, and intelligent and you give as good as you get.”

  “So what if they do find out?”

  Now face to face, he folded his arms and rested them across her chest.

  “Then they find out. We can keep it a secret, if you like.”

  She considered him.

  “Are we going to do it again?”

  “We haven’t done it once! Shouldn’t we at least have a test run to see if we like it at all?”

  “Sweet-talker. Let’s have at it then.”

  Off came his t shirt, revealing the chest that had been part-bared during many gigs for a quick laugh. He stood to pull his jeans and boxes off entirely, and Siobhan did the same, shuffling out of her skinnies and annoyingly utilitarian underwear. Then in a sudden fit of nerves, clamped both hands over her pubic triangle and waited.

  “You’ve made access very difficult, there, Siobhan.”

  He pointed out, reaching into his desk drawer.

  “What are you doing?”

  She countered.

  “Looking for ‘protection’. Like an armed guard...” He replied absent mindedly, coming back wielding the packet.

  “How many girls have you had in here?”

  “Not enough to keep score, but it’s always good to be prepared.”

  “Many groupies?”

  “Comedians don’t have groupies; we have direction-less girls with low self-esteem and nowhere to go.”

  “Sounds like a groupie to me.”

  He sighed. “I’m thirty six, Siobhan. Did you expect me to be a virgin?”

  “No...”

  “I’m single, you’re single. Those are really the only facts that matter. Unless you’ve been lying about your age. You really are twenty two, aren’t you?”

  She took a deep breath and removed her cupped hands.

  “This and the tits are usually a dead giveaway.”

  “Very vintage, 1970’s chic. I like it.”

  “Pubes are a feminist issue, Ritchie. A bold statement. They were probably all the rage when you were young and virile.”

  “Ooh, how deep she cuts me. Maybe you should ease up on the age gags unless you want me to bring in a fluffer.”