Literoticum Survivor Murders Ch 04

Tara Edward's hand trembled as she applied the mascara to her distinctive green eyes. She was ambivalent about this.

For over two years, she had battled to remain faithful to those promises she had made to the man she loved deeply...even now. 'For better or worse, for rich or poorer, in sickness and health; forsaking all others till death do you part.' But the past five years had brought too much sickness, poverty and worse. It had taken its toll on her and Brian, her husband. This latest trial, the loss of their second child, seemed to be a wave of sorrow too deep for her to recover. Even after three months on anti-depressants and hours upon tedious hours of counselling, she still found herself a defeated shadow of her former self.

Each day she felt less a woman. She stood for long periods of time staring in the huge mirror in the bathroom. She counted each grey hair before dying them a dark, red-brown. She followed each deepening line in the face that had once been girl-next-door pretty and still hid her forty-four years better than most. She lifted the sagging breasts that had nourished her four children and pinched rolls of skin that hung lose on her tummy from the pregnancies.

She supposed she was luckier than many women her age. Thanks to good genetics from the bastard that had been her biological father most people guessed her age a decade or so younger than she actually was. Her legs too still turned heads, even young ones, when she wore her typical mini-skirts. But if you took a second look you would notice the faint blue lines running like road maps beneath the pale porcelain skin even when it was tan. She cursed fate that wasted youth on the young. She longed for the wild days of her youth or even her thirties.

Perhaps one the hardest parts about the miscarriage was that it was a reminder that she was growing older. Her biological clock was on snooze control and after the miscarriage she was even afraid to try again. She was tired, depressed and feeling decidedly unsexy despite the erotic stories that she wrote most days while her three year old daughter was at nursery. She had actually begun writing the stories as a way of living out her fantasies of screwing hard-bodied, young black men barely older than her own sons. For almost a year her writing as wife2hotblk had allowed her to escape the monotony of her life and marriage. She could become once again the desirable and sexy woman that had taken on ten virile black men in a gangbang...and out fucked and sucked them all.

She loved her husband, whom she often referred to as her rock. She adored their young daughter, whose cherubic little face was a lighter version of her father's deep chocolate. She had finally found the stability and unconditional love that she had sought since the night that her biological father had abandoned her and her pregnant mother when she was younger than her daughter, Ella. From that moment on, she had lost a precious thing...trust.

It was not what she wanted for her beloved Ella, which was why for the past two years she had waged this constant battle to remain faithful to her husband. It was not that she did not find him attractive. She did. He was everything she found attractive in a man. He was broad shouldered with enough 'cushion for the pushin' as the saying goes. His thighs were like tree trunks and his arms saplings. His neatly shaved head glistened in the sunlight. Of course, it was his dark chocolate skin that sometimes took her breath away and flooded her panties.

But since they lost the baby, sex had gone from a weekly occurrence to a monthly. As a woman not far removed from her sexual peak, she would have preferred three or more times a day. Of course, whenever she brought the subject up, her beloved Brian assured her that he still loved her and found her desirable. But work and life seemed to be battering their sex lives.

So it was that she had come to this point: an affair with a young stranger from the Internet. It had all begun as innocently as the hundreds of other 'fan' emails she had received over the past year. Her response had been the same polite tome that she accorded all of them. But somewhere over the weeks it had turned to a more sexual banter. It was not unlike the type of word games and flirting that had begun hers and Brian's relationship so long ago. Still she reasoned that it was innocent enough and within the boundaries that she and her husband had agreed forbid cyber sex...or more.

Today was definitely that more. After over a month of increasingly explicit sexual banter, she was going to actually meet Hastings, who was another writer at Literotica and an unbelievably gorgeous young black man. He was holidaying in London and wanted to meet his Survivor competition as he called her. She had been reluctant at first. She feared that the man in the flesh would be too tempting.

She had re-read her article...Three Ways Not to Have an Affair. She had taken her own advice. She had carefully broached the sensitive topic of sex for perhaps the hundredth time with Brian. Of course, it was the same litany; things at work were bad, it wasn't her. She had reminded herself of all the good things about their life, especially Ella. She had spent the whole night before just staring into her beatific face as she slept. Tara had been distracting herself too by pounding her sexual frustrations away on the keys of her laptop. She had submitted several more stories just in time for the big year end push with the Survivor Contest too.

But many of them had starred the hunk whose pictures were password protected on her computer. His hard body was a slightly leaner version of her husband and dream man. His skin was slightly lighter than Brian's, but his broad chest was scattered with the same tight, bristly, dark chest hair that she adored.

Of course, she knew that her hubby could easily by-pass any password protection that she had. He was after all a computer technician with British security agency MI5. But theirs was not a suspicious marriage. He had all of the passwords to her email accounts; even the naughty one to which all her fan mail, including Hastings', came. Brian never used them and she had never given him any reason to doubt her...until now.

She sighed heavily; half in fear and half in excitement as she heard the knock at the door and rushed down the stairs. She tugged at her mini-skirt and hesitated a moment before throwing open the door.

***

Brian Edwards threw open the door to the three bedroom flat that he shared with his wife, Tara, and their three year old daughter. He immediately sensed it...death. It was the same feeling that he had known for almost his entire adult life; a feeling he had brought into more than a few places. It clung like tarry-filth to his dark skin. No matter how hot the showers he took before climbing between the cool, cotton sheets with his wife each night, he still felt dirty. He supposed after almost two decades of his job with MI5 it was to be expected. No one had held his post this long...cleaner. The guy that they went to when diplomacy and everything else failed. When someone needed to disappear or worse, they called him.

True enough, most of the time he simply sat at a desk with everyone else. His cover as a computer tech was not exactly a lie. Ninety-percent of the time that was an accurate portrayal of his job. But it was that other ten percent that made him unclean. Unlovable. A liar...and a murderer. That was what Tara never understood. What he could never tell her. It was tearing them apart; more each day. Some part of him accepted the burden of the loss of their baby as his karmic justice. But why Tara? Why did she have to pay for his sins?

With the pills and counselling he had thought things were getting better, but these past couple of weeks she had been acting different. The doctor had warned them when she began taking the anti-depressants that they might cause suicidal thoughts. He had watched her closely those first few weeks, but she seemed to be fine. Then last night he had felt her trying to sneak out of bed. He knew that was what she did when she wanted or needed to cry. Like him, her childhood and especially her father's abandonment had taught Tara to never cry. It was a sign of weakness.

When they had first learned that their baby had died, more nights than not Tara had slipped down the stairs. He had found her each morning curled up on the couch with her eyes red and puffy. It was not that he did not care. He simply did not know how to help. He did not know what to do or say to make things better. He knew there really was nothing he could do or say. So as he had been trained to do, he bore his pain in silence.

When he felt her trying to slip from their marital bed again and seek the refuge of the dark in which to pour her tears, he had had enough. He reached out and grabbed her arm, drawing her into the protective strength of his embrace. He was rocked; shaken to his core by the huge, gulping sobs that racked his wife's body for what seemed for hours, but were probably only minutes. Even Ella, who slept in her toddler bed next to theirs since she became ill, had woken a bit at the sound. He had quieted the baby so she could return to the land of peaceful dreams, but it was beyond his ability to gift his beloved wife with the same.

So from the moment that Ella's nursery called to say that her mother had not picked her up and that they could not reach her at home, he had known something was wrong. No matter how low Tara got, she would never, ever, never forget Ella. The moment he had opened the door and felt that too familiar presence his heart had sped up. It was pounding in his broad chest, lightly dusted with the short, springy dark hairs that fascinated his beautiful wife. He called out her name, trying hard not to sound too alarmed just in case he was wrong. But when she did not respond in her distinctive Southern accent, he knew he was not mistaken.

Taking the stairs two and three at a time as fast as his powerful legs could take him, he threw open the bathroom door and was relieved to not see the stereotypical tub of pink water and his wife slumped beneath the water. He threw open the door to Ella's toy room as well; although he could not for a moment think his wife would go there...not for this. He padded down the hall. Only two rooms remained. As he pushed open the door to the small office they shared, he drew a deep breath. Holding it, he turned to face the final room; their bedroom. Pushing it open too, he stood frozen at the sight before him.

Tara's green eyes were staring fixed at the ceiling. Her hands and feet were bound with silken straps to the bed. Her hands were clasped into tight fists as if fighting to break free of the bonds. Her full figure was encased in a stunning black and red bustier that in any other situation would arouse him. Black stocking covered her shapely legs and her red high-heels were tossed at the foot of the bed. But the thing that he could not close his eyes to was the massive black plastic dildo that protruded from her bluish lips. He did not need to feel for a pulse to know that his wife was gone. He had seen enough death to know he would never again touch her warm skin or hear her sweet voice.

His training took over then. He would not have the police find her body this way. Taking his mobile phone from his jacket pocket, he dialled his team. The scene the police would find would, as hard as it was to manage, reflect what he had originally feared most...a suicide. They would not see his wife like this. He might have failed her in life; not been the husband she needed, the husband he should have been. But he would be damned if he would fail her now.

Even before his team arrived he began to do what he did best: clean up messes. He grabbed her laptop from the table next to the bed. He used her passwords to open files as he tried to mimic her flowery style of writing in the hardest letter he could imagine writing...his wife's suicide note. When that was done, he had looked around the room for signs of the murderer. Since there would be no crime scene photos or official investigation, he memorised each item; looking for anything out of place.

After that, he faced the hardest task of all; touching the cold and lifeless body of the woman that he loved so deeply. He began by lifting each leg tenderly. He loosened the straps that bound them to the bed. He traced the purplish bruises around her ankles. He knew that the team would have to cover those.

Then slowly crawling up the bed they had shared for almost five years, he untied the silken bindings from her small hands as well. Bringing the clenched fist slowly to his full lips, he prayed for strength to get through what was to come. The worst was pulling the offensive shiny black plastic dildo from between her bluish lips. Bending his shiny, dark head forward, he used his fingers to slowly close the lids over those remarkably green eyes. Then with all the hurt and pain...and yes, betrayal...welling inside of him, he bent and for the last time pressed his lips to her cold and unmoving ones.

'I know I failed you. I wasn't the man or the husband I should have been. You deserved more,' he whispered as he brushed the reddish-brown hair back from her still face. 'But I promise you two things. I will make sure that Ella knows her mummy...forever.' He laid the clenched fist he had been holding over her heart and reached for the other. 'And the bastard that betrayed you...betrayed us...will pay. With his life.'

***

Tara's spirit huddled in the corner of their bedroom. From the moment that she first realised Hastings' true intention this was what she hated most: hurting Brian, Ella and her other children. Looking at the tears she saw falling unchecked down his dark face, she knew that she deserved everything. She was the one that had failed. She had betrayed her vows, her husband, their love and the family they had built. And she deserved not only to die, but the horribly ironic death she had endured as well. But her family did not. This man that she loved so deeply did not.

Ironically, over the past few months, she had often thought that they would be better off if she were dead. Of course, she lacked the courage to take her own life. It had been more a vague wish, but in those final moments before the darkness had overtaken her, she had realised how very, very much she had wanted to live. But it was too late then as she fought the madman, who called himself Hastings.

She screamed out her pain, but no one could hear. She begged and pleaded for just one moment, for some way of communicating with her hurt partner. She wanted to apologise...as if she could. She wanted to beg his forgiveness. But most of all, she wanted to tell him how much she really, truly did love him one more time. But she could not, and she supposed that she deserved that as well. She would for eternity remember the sight of his hurt and pain-laced face as he sat there next to the shell that had once been her body; his large dark hands covering her pale ones.

It was ironic. One of her favourite photographs and the one she used on her profile as a Literoticum author was not that dissimilar. His dark hand clasped her much smaller and paler one. He had taken that picture the day that they bought her engagement ring. Over the years, it had come to symbolise who they were...a union of two races, two nationalities and two cultures...blending through Ella in perfect harmony. And she destroyed all that. Tossed it aside for the promise of fleeting pleasure. She deserved it all. Her silent sobs added in chorus to Brian's.

Then she heard it over her shoulder. It was the unmistakable high pitched cry of a little child. Turning she looked into the light. A little girl stood there. She had curly hair like Ella's except lighter even, almost blondish. Her eyes were the most captivating mixture of brown and green as if they belonged more on a cat than a little girl. She was staring at Tara with her hands behind her back.

'I'm Hope. Have you seen my mummy. She gonna come play with me,' the little girl dropped her head as she finished.

Tara knew. Any mother would. This was her little girl. Their baby that she lost. She knew that she did not deserve this mercy, but her heart leapt at it. She supposed that was what mercy was...for the undeserving. For a moment, she turned for a final look at her husband, Brian, her rock. Her unheard whisper echoed in her heart. 'You take care of Ella. I have to go now. Our Hope needs me. Until we meet again. I love you...forever.' She walked into the light then, taking the tiny toffee coloured hand that the girl held out to her. 'I'm your mummy,' she whispered as she tugged the tiny form into a tight hug as if to never let go.