Sebastian - Secrets Read online

  Ruth is shocked. “I had no idea things were that bad,” she says anxiously.

  “Have been for years Ruth. I just don’t talk about it. I just presumed it was me. But, the more I look into it I see that other couples don’t live like us. It’s not normal, Ruth. He’s not normal. I want what other people have.”

  “It’s a fallacy.” Ruth retorts. “All marriages are the same eventually. It’s all sex and candles until children come along and then couples settle down. Just buy yourself a raunchy book, a new vibrator and fantasise, girl.”

  “That’s just it Ruth. I’m not prepared to settle for that any more. I’m nearly forty, if I don’t change my life now, no man will want me. My clock is ticking Ruth. Wrinkles are appearing every day and before long I’ll be too arthritic or senile to recognize a cock, let alone be able to do anything with it.” We both break into a laughing fit and it is cathartic.

  It’s been a long and tiring day and as I pull into the drive of our neat suburban house, I’m looking forward to an early night with my book and a glass of red wine.

  Alan, as usual, is sitting in his favourite chair in front of the television watching a sci-fi documentary he has recorded on the TV hard drive.

  Our evening together looks set to continue its usual routine. I’ll put Joe to bed, Bella will grudgingly do her homework and then disappear to her room for the evening to chat online with her friends. Alan and I will barely talk. He will retire to bed at ten o’clock and leave me working on my iPad or watching television. He will be comatose when I turn in and I will lie awake until the early hours of the morning, feeling frustrated and bitter. No sex. I do wonder, night after night, if I’m so unattractive and undesirable that even Alan, who’s no Adonis, doesn’t want me. Simon wants me and soon he’ll have me, I remind myself.

  My regular source of orgasmic satisfaction is provided by the contents of my hidden toy box. My favoured toy of the moment is my neon pink Rampant Rabbit. With seven functions it is apparently “perfect for the rampant connoisseur!” I guess that describes me. It does make me feel seedy using my toys in private but a girl has needs. Usually my rabbit accompanies me to the toilet, as that is the only room in which I have privacy. Recently I treated myself to a tiny vibrator the size and shape of a lipstick and this has perked up many a boring day at the office.

  Alan and I have had many arguments about sex. I would never divulge to anyone, even Ruth, that we’ve only made love three times in five years. I think it must be me - I must be detestable. Simon doesn’t think so.

  My self-esteem is at its lowest ebb despite constant reassurance from my mother and others that I’m an attractive woman. I’m tall and have long wavy blonde hair and, although I have the remnants of a baby belly I’m not otherwise overweight. I consider my facial features to be acceptable and unlikely to turn milk sour, and I receive compliments on my cornflower blue eyes. Yet clearly there is something lacking in my persona, which would otherwise make me desirable.

  I’ve pleaded with Alan to agree to counselling or sex therapy sessions but he says that he won’t discuss our private business with strangers. He says ‘he is who he is’ and tells me that all married couples are the same. He blames my literary choices and movies for putting unrealistic ideas in my head.

  “Those books you read and films you watch are pure fantasy,” he rebukes.

  I disagree. My books are indeed my escape but I deeply yearn for everything I read to happen to me. I know that not all couples are like Alan and I. This is why I began looking at the Internet late at night and at work, I know that web sites exist, solely centred on pleasure. Uniform Dating is only one such site. I have visited others, and am becoming increasingly curious about BDSM. This is truly tapping into the darker side of my persona and I only browse those pages after a glass or two of wine, when my inhibitions are lessened. Oh why can’t it be me receiving the lashing from the leather belt?

  “Have you had a good day?” I ask, sitting down with a large glass of Claret, having settled Joe in bed and helped him with his homework.

  “Same as usual. You?” He sips whisky from his favourite tumbler, not averting his eyes from the television as he talks to me.

  “Same as usual. What take-away did you get?”

  “Burger and chips. I was going to get Chinese but I noticed last time, they’ve put their prices up – bloody ten pence on the rice. Can you believe that?”

  Ten pence? Who cares, you tight sod? “Daylight robbery if you ask me,” I reply caustically.

  “How was work today?” I try to kindle the conversation, partly through guilt at my attempted infidelity today. Alan has worked for the same company, Best Business Solutions, for approaching twenty years showing no ambition, nor desire for promotion, instead he says he is happy to have a secure job in today’s volatile workplace. This conjecture would be credible if he didn’t always complain about his job and colleagues. IT, he tells me repeatedly, is for younger men nowadays, graduates ‘who aren’t even old enough to shave,’ snapping at his heels leading to insecurity, fuelled by his employer, Gerrard, who forever reminds Alan how highly trained and keen the younger generation are. He tells me that the only thing that keeps him sane is working with his best friend, our Best Man, Mike. We’ve talked about trying to pair Mike up with Ruth but Alan says Ruth would eat Mike alive and spit him out. He misjudges Ruth but he won’t change his mind and anyway, Mike isn’t Ruth’s type. He has a low opinion of women borne through bitterness since his wife, Patsy, ran off with her personal trainer taking their son with them.

  “Work was shit as usual,” he grumbles. “Gerrard wants me to go on a bloody course. I told him not to waste his money, no bloody course is going to make me better at my job, but he said if I don’t keep up with the new software then he’ll find a younger bloke who will.”

  “I’ve got my course coming up this weekend, don’t forget,” I remind him. “Well, not actually a course but a team building thing for business women. The thought of it fills me with horror too, but we have to do these things, Alan. We have to keep abreast of change or fall behind and be trampled on.”

  “Yeh. Whatever.” He drains his glass and burps.

  “Charming.”

  “Better out than in, heard about a bloke that died once from trapped wind,” he burps again and turns up the volume on the television, and so ends our conversation.

  2

  It’s finally Thursday. The time is twelve fifty and I’m inside the Value Inn, waiting for a lift car to take me to the third floor, room 311 where my delectable fire fighter Simon awaits.

  I don’t think I have ever felt so sexually charged, my new lace panties are damp with my arousal and my heart is pounding. I’m wearing a long navy woollen coat, which reaches to the tops of my black knee length boots. Beneath the respectable woollen façade a scandalously short gold vest dress clings to my curves and allows my breasts to spill forth almost to the nipples. Lace topped stockings are suspended from my newly purchased black suspender belt and garters. I feel like a whore. I am a whore. My entire ensemble was hastily purchased yesterday and kept secreted away in carrier bags in the boot of my car. Changing at work had been a challenge but I succeeded in racing from the office to my car without being seen, and here I am now – squirming and tugging down the hem of my dress from beneath the flaps of my coat, my work clothes folded neatly on top on my sensible shoes in a small navy holdall at my feet.

  I knock gently on the hotel door as a flake of paint falls away. Three knocks. Wait. Another knock. Our code. The stranger releases the lock and the door opens. There stands a treat to behold, naked except for a white towel, which hangs loosely from his hips and is tied to the side. He’s a classic ‘A’ shape - broad set shoulders tapering down to narrow hips with sharply defined pectoral muscles and solid biceps, I lick my lips keenly, thinking that all my Christmases have come at once.

  “Simon. Hi.” I can’t think what to say to him, suddenly embarrassed, my face flushing fiercely. I place the holdall an
d my handbag on the wooden luggage rack next to the door.

  He doesn’t reply, instead he’s all hot breath and sultriness, as he pushes the door closed, stands behind me and places his fingertips lightly on either side of my neck.

  I shiver in momentary alarm, as I remind myself how little I know of this man. His fingers slip beneath the lapel of my coat and he pulls it from my back. I outstretch my arms to aid the coat’s removal and he drops it to the cheap green patterned carpet, where it pools at my feet. He’s still behind me and I feel the prickle of tiny electric shocks coursing down the trail of my spine.

  “Sit on the bed.” He commands and I step forward to the queen size bed and sit on the edge, revelling in his assertiveness and keen to comply.

  “Wow,” I say nervously. “Aren’t you the bossy one.”

  “Sshh.” He puts his finger to his lips. Oh my.

  The ache between my legs is becoming unbearable and my breathing quickens in anticipation of what this man will do to me. He saunters slowly, with a sexy swagger, to where I sit and my eyes travel from the trail of dark hair at his perfectly formed upper pubic area to his navel, up to his beautifully sculpted chest, which is matted with course black hair.

  This man is a God. I’ve won the sex lottery, and I intend to spend my winnings during the next two hours before I’ll have to leave to collect my children.

  Guilt surges through me like a tsunami as I think of the family I am betraying, but Simon forces my legs apart with his knee and guilt gives way to lust once more.

  Gazing longingly at Simon’s ruggedly handsome face, I note that he appears younger than his profile age of thirty-eight, by a good ten years. His youthful looks belie his manly expertise as he sinks to his knees between my quivering legs. He leans forward and his mouth finds mine. His tongue pushes between my parted lips and probes inside my hungry mouth. He bruises my lips with his brutal kiss and I reach forward and entangle my fingers in his bushy black hair, tugging roughly at the roots until he moans. His hands clutch at my breasts, releasing them from their Lycra restraint.

  His mouth leaves mine - I’m panting and wanting, my hands pushing his head downwards demandingly.

  “Wait,” he rasps, as his expert mouth finds my throbbing nipple and sucks and flicks it so tantalizingly slowly.

  “I want you so badly,” I groan. My fingers travel down from the nape of his neck to his back where they glide over the beading sweat that is forming.

  “You’re so hot Rosie.” He pulls away from my nipple, leaving it bereft, and trails his hot tongue down to my navel, his towel falling away exposing his lean buttocks and colossal manhood. Oh thank you Lord … he’s huge!

  Self conscious, suddenly, I try to suck in my jelly belly, extending my arms behind me I rest back onto my hands so that my midriff is elongated, and the small folds of tummy fat become less obvious.

  He roughly pulls off my panties before his tongue continues its journey southward. I close my eyes in utter rapture, as his fingers part my cleft and hold me open and exposed. His mouth encompasses my clitoris and sucks before his teeth catch the tip of me making cry out in ecstasy. I collapse back onto the bed and grasp the white cotton sheets in my fists as he circles and flicks at my sweet spot with his tongue.

  “Your cunt is dripping for me,” he murmurs appreciatively as he slides two fingers into my wetness.

  “Oh. Please. Don’t Stop.” I pant at the bliss I feel from the unfamiliar attention my body is receiving.

  A third finger slides in, lubricated by my juices and all three of his probing digits massage the sweet bundle of nerve endings deep inside me while his thumb rubs me so exquisitely.

  I feel myself building, and he senses my imminent orgasm and quickens his rubbing and massaging, thrusting now with his hand, his mouth on my thigh, biting into my flesh and I’m lost in the crescendo of pleasure which ripples and spasms, drenching his fingers in my liquor. As I feel the tremors subsiding I lay panting on the bed feeling a release which is alien to me in its’ completeness.

  “Holy fuck,” I gasp, breathlessly.

  “Suck me.” The cold instruction cuts through my stupor and I raise my trembling body from the bed. He’s standing before me now, between my legs still. His magnificent cock stands erect and hard, the veins along its’ length throbbing as he thrusts his hips toward my eager mouth. I slide off the bed so that I’m on my knees and, grabbing the backs of his thighs I pull his waiting organ to my mouth. He grabs my hair with both hands and forces my head toward his groin. The shiny head of his enormous cock is almost too large for me to take him into my mouth. I flick my tongue across his crown and eagerly lap up the salty bead of fluid, which has formed on the cleft of his tip.

  “Yes. Take it all, you fucking slut.” His hands force my head nearer still so that his pulsing cock enters my mouth and I gag as it hits the back of my throat. He is so immense but I work him with my mouth, sliding him past my lips, sucking hard and working his root with my cupped hand. His enraptured moans reassure me that I’m pleasuring him well. My head bobs as I work his cock but my breath catches as Simon pulls sharply on the hair at the nape of my neck, tugging me away from his groin. He slips from my mouth but continues to pull my hair so that I’m forced to stand, aroused by the hair pulling, the pain blending seamlessly with the pleasure.

  I lean into him and kiss him, seeking assurance that he’s pleased with me. He pulls away from my kiss, grasps my shoulders and spins me around so that I have my back to him once more. Still using the tug of my hair to guide me, he forces me forward over the edge of the bed so that my ass is in the air.

  Releasing my hair, he moves close to me so that I can feel the tickle of his pubic hair against my buttocks and the hard rod of his penis pressing into my ass. I feel him reach to the nightstand, hear the tearing of foil and he slides a condom onto his hardness. Panic sets in at the vulnerability of my most private cavity but instead, the head of his cock presses into my pulsing vagina and with one sharp thrust I feel him fill me so full that I fear he’ll tear me apart. His thrusts are purposeful and fierce and, in just a few short moments, he cries out my fake name,

  “Rosie. Oh shit. Here it comes,” and he pumps and releases his load as his sweating torso arches back in frenzy.

  “Fuck, you’re good” he praises as he pulls out, removes his condom and tosses it into the waste paper bin.

  I crawl up onto the bed and pull the sheet over my glistening body, feeling suddenly self-aware, exposed but deliciously used. Actually I feel dirty, as though I’ve been a mere vessel for his climax. Is this a good feeling or a bad feeling? It feels both. This inner conflict is not what I envisaged, and yet it’s entirely what I bought into when I began my illicit journey. Hearts and flowers and loving sentiments do not marry with uniform dating and extra marital affairs. Simon takes my hand and pulls me up from bed. We’re both flushed and the hotel room smells of sex.

  “Shower with me, I’ve got to go in a minute,” he orders curtly.

  “So soon? I have another hour,” I say.

  He’s a man of few words though, and I wonder whether he has much depth but then I remind myself that the purpose of our meeting wasn’t for conversation. The water is cleansing and goes part way to purging the dirtiness I feel within.

  “Will I see you again?” I ask tentatively, towelling my body dry. He’s made no mention of repeating today’s sleazy afternoon, which doesn’t boost a girl’s confidence.

  “Yes, sounds good. I’ll call you, I’ve got your mobile number,” he promises.

  “Only call between 9am and 3pm please,” I’m suddenly concerned that Simon may call when I’m at home.

  “No worries. Jealous husband?”

  “You could say that,” I frown. Alan would kill him. Or kill me, if he found out. Or would he even care? I wonder.

  “Alright, I’ll be careful. It’ll have to fit round my shifts though,” he replies.

  I retrieve my work clothes and fresh underwear from the holdall and dress quickl
y, screwing the gold dress and slutty underwear into the holdall, boots on top.

  “Very prim,” says Simon, watching me while leaning against the wall by the door, towel still draped around his hips. “But I know what a whore you really are, don’t I?”

  “Isn’t that a good mix?” I ask. “Prim on the outside, whore on the inside?”

  “Oh yes. A very good mix,” he purrs.

  Buttoning my coat, I take a last look at my surroundings. The bland interior of the economy room does nothing to lessen the cheapness I feel in myself. We kiss briefly, Simon assuring me that he will be in touch in a few days, and I leave.

  As I sit alone in my car in the school car park, killing the hour until pick-up time, I reflect on the afternoon, mentally flaying myself for being an adulterous slut. The enormity of what I have done overwhelms me and tears sting my eyes.

  With the children on board, suppressing the forlorn sobs, which threaten to burst forth, I dutifully ask them about their day and resign myself to settling back in to my dull life. What was I thinking? This isn’t the answer, Beth, I tell myself. If I do leave Alan, it needs to be because of his unreasonable behaviour, not because of my cheating. The children would never forgive me if I chose another man over their father and yet, having tasted the forbidden fruit, I’m not convinced I have the willpower to stop myself now.

  Alan won’t be home for another hour, which gives me time to hide the holdall at the back of my wardrobe, under a mound of shoes. I’ll have to launder the clothes at the weekend, hide them amongst the school uniforms. Thankfully for me, Alan never gets involved in laundry duties.

  Later, lying in bed in the darkness – with Alan snoring beside me – sleep evades me. My mind runs through today’s encounter moment by racy moment. Feelings conflict from relief at not being caught, to arousal at the memory of the hair tugging, from fulfillment to deceit, from elation to despair. I ponder the idea of seeking counselling, it cannot be normal to feel so mixed up, but dispel the idea – there is no way I can add more pressure to my schedule, nor can I share these disreputable thoughts with another.