An English Affair

Foreword:

The following story is fiction, but based upon recent real life events. While it does not contain details of graphic sex, the reader should be over eighteen years of age. In order to protect the innocent, and otherwise, names have been changed. I would like to dedicate my story to all unhappily married women and in particular the real Rebecca with whom, under different circumstances, we might have turned fantasy into fact. Probably a story we could all tell once in a lifetime.

An English Affair

An Erotic Romance

by

Thomas Graham

The number of books written about the art of lovemaking would probably fill the British Library, but for me, sexual encounters have always been a question of timing. The desires of two individuals rise and subside on their own courses. There are emotional needs separate from the physical needs. And sometimes all of those things click together in one person and then click in tandem with those of the other person. My initial encounter with Becky was one of these occasions. The first time I met her, on her doorstep back in July, our eyes locked in that millisecond of recognition with the knowledge that this would be more than just the start of a business relationship.

Friday 10th September 2008

Rebecca Ricard was far from being hard on the eyes. Indeed, for forty-one years old, she was truly stunning, especially through my own slightly older vision. The curly-haired brunette with the body of a twenty-year old placed one hand on my shoulder as she examined my plans for her new garden, the result of her recent birthday and a five figure guilt payout from her husband Daniel, who worked 24/7 in a bank somewhere in the mysterious heart of the City. His lack of attention to her needs, sexual and otherwise, had become an ongoing source of discussion between the two of us on my previous four visits. Unfortunately, on this occasion, he too was present. Despite that, I bathed in her aura on that breezy late September morning in the rear garden of the Ricards' six bedroomed house in Surbiton, on what promised to be another warm late summer day.

As usual, Rebecca, mother of two teenage sons, originally from Brentwood far away to the east in Essex, was dressed impeccably. Frankly, she had the time to attend to herself due to a sixth presence in the house, an overweight Ukranian immigrant called Ursula who seemingly never smiled, certainly not in my presence anyway. I suspected she resented the attention I was receiving from her mistress. The fifth occupant I had seen only once, Daniel's ageing mother, who spoke not one word of English. Today, my client sported an impossibly tight pair of black leather shorts and a beige Stade Francais polo shirt, open a little more than politely correct at the neck, due possibly to two missing buttons. It was, I suspected, a gift from her Parisian husband. At the extreme of her long legs she was barefoot, her blood-red painted toenails glinting in the early morning sun. She wore a long silver chain at her neck. An Ankh nestled comfortably between the small tanned breasts.

If it was at all possible, Rebecca looked even sexier today than that memorable first meeting six weeks ago when she came to the door wearing a non-too-modest black bikini top, and a pink beach towel tightly wrapped around her waist. I wondered at the time if she was naked down there or just being reasonably modest. Today, those delicately tanned breasts were clearly as natural as they had been twenty years ago, no doubt a little less supported from nurturing two offspring, but incredibly easy on the eye all the same. And the rare summer sun had brought out her freckles.

My drawings, in splendid watercolour, courtesy of the printers adjacent to my office in Kingston, were laid out on the glass garden table, pegged down at each corner by a stone. Although it was my sixth year in my part-time business as Graham Garden Design (Surrey) Ltd, I was impressed with the result. But Rebecca was picky, hence one of the lesser excuses for this fifth visit. She clearly wanted her money's worth, or more to the point, her husband's. The overriding reason that I was happy to turn out so early that day was because I truly enjoyed her company. The balding and overweight Dan Ricard, delaying his departure for work, was no doubt interested to ascertain where his money would be going, and clearly suspicious of my presence. I was very conscious of the wayward hand on my shoulder, but reluctant to move away from the pleasant contact.

Rebecca's smoky grey eyes glanced from me to her husband, taunting him, 'See, darling, what a wonderful job Tom has done? Next spring you won't recognise this garden.'

'I should bloody hope not, the price I am paying.'

She waved an arm at the present disaster he was happy to call a designer garden, her other hand still tauntingly glued to my shirt, I could clearly feel the heat of her touch, 'Yeah, well, look what that idiot you got in to do it, did. He wasn't even a proper gardener.'

He stared at me with disdain. If he was aware of his wife's familiarity with me, he didn't show it. 'So where did you find this Tom then?' He was clearly unhappy with investing his hard earned money with a relative stranger.

'I told you before, he was recommended by the Turners. I have complete faith in him.' She turned to me with a devastating smile, 'Don't I, Tom?'

I tried to reply with dignity, finding her husband's rudeness unnerving, 'Your money is in safe hands, Monsieur Ricard,' I smiled at him, condescendingly politically correct. 'Not that I have been paid any yet,' I added.

That was enough to make Daniel look at his watch, 'Right Becks, I've seen all I want to see, I have to go. Leave you guys to it.' It was our first meeting and, I hoped, the last. He had made no remark of his wife's physical contact with me. I reluctantly assumed she was that sort of touchy-feely person with every male who crossed her path. How wrong that assumption turned out to be!

'Miserable sod, take no notice of him,' she said when he was out of earshot, 'He just can't cope with me giving my attention to someone else. Even the boys sometimes. Not that I get any myself nowadays.'

'It's a wonder you got pregnant then,' I ventured.

She smiled up at me with those steely eyes, 'Things change in eighteen years, Tom. When I was younger I reckon I could get pregnant just looking at a guy's pants. What Dan wants and what I want are completely different now. He's jealous of me, but not in a sexual way, I'm not sure what he wants anymore, he doesn't share with me.' She looked at me blankly, I couldn't interpret her expression. 'If I went off with another man I'm not sure he would even notice.'

I laughed nervously, 'Well, if you were my wife I would certainly notice, and I would make sure you had no reason to stray.'

'Well, you are not are you, and if you were. . .' I sensed, or maybe it was just hope, that she was about to say more, but she turned her attention back to the plans, 'Now, what about those bushes at the back, what did you call them?'

'Aquifoliaceae.'

'Huh?'

'Holly to you, evergreen and great for birds, they love the berries. And a very good screen too.'

'Good, every time I sit out here I feel there's a thousand eyes on me.'

I laughed, 'Dressed like you were the first time we met, I don't blame them.'

Carefree, I realised that without any conscience, I was flirting like crazy with my client, ignorant of the fact that, with the wrong choice of words or some stupid action, I could blow the whole job, my largest contract in ages.

She cocked her head, a puzzled look at me, 'I don't remember, what was I wearing?'

'A black bikini, Rebecca, at least the top part was.'

'Oh God! You remember that?'

'What red-blooded male wouldn't, that vision will be printed on me indelibly.'

She laughed, 'My, you have led a sheltered life.'

'But you did have a towel round your waist.'

Rebecca blushed, 'Actually I don't usually come to the door like that, I must have just come out of the shower. I was expecting the postman.' She put her hand to her mouth and blushed, 'Oh my God, what am I saying! You must think I am a right one, this tarty housewife from Essex.'

I smiled at those intriguing eyes, 'Not at all, I have known several girls from Essex and none would hold a candle to you. With a couple of exceptions that is.'

'Flatterer!'

'Want me to retract that statement?'

'No way!'

'I think we should change the subject don't you?'

'Yes, Tom, let's have a little decorum around here.' She touched my bare arm, 'Not that I don't enjoy our little chats.'

I touched her hand lightly with my own, she didn't flinch as I expected, 'Me too.' The light contact, our most intimate yet, didn't go without a glance between us, a new bond had been created.

We returned to the drawing. Between us we pencilled in a few minor changes. Eventually she looked up, 'Looks like we are there at long last, Tom, isn't it time I gave you some money?'

'Just the deposit, the main payment is at start of the works.'

'Come inside then and I will give you a cheque. How much do you need?'

I gave her a round figure and followed her up the ugly flagstone steps, apparently procured by her husband off the back of some dubious truck.

Rebecca sported a boyish figure, a waist quite trim for a mother of two and, from my current view, a wonderfully tight round ass, the leather covering catching the early morning sun on the shiny material. Her long curly brunette hair was today tied back with a loose bow, exposing the clichéd swan neck. A few stray hairs fell either side of her narrow face, framing it. Behind her, I followed the trail of her intoxicating perfume.

As we paused outside the open doorway, she reached out and touched my arm, 'Tom, I think it's time you called me Becky, don't you?'

I nodded and had a sudden urge to lean forward and kiss her. As if sensing this, she turned away, possibly, I assured myself, due to the presence of the alien maid. Later, much later, naked together in a hotel bed, she confessed that she would have welcomed the approach, had it been in more private circumstances.

The enormous kitchen was the complete opposite of the garden. It was furnished extensively, and expensively, in stainless steel and smoked glass. The only exception was the table, a massive oak affair which had undoubtedly been the centrepiece of many Victorian kitchens. On an earlier visit, my wicked mind had wondered how many servants had surrendered their bodies to the landed gentry over the worn timber. Today, in a brief moment of silent lust, I imagined my client naked, on her front, asking of me man's favourite request comprising two well-versed words. Ursula was preparing breakfast. She sobered my salacious thoughts with eyes of hostility. Perhaps she had read my mind.

'Breakfast, Tom?' asked Rebecca.

Much as I wanted to prolong the meeting, I shook my head, 'I have to get moving, Becky, I have two more clients this morning.'

Ursula's head turned towards us in surprise at the use of the familiar Christian name.

Rebecca looked disappointed, as of course was I. I could so easily have found excuses to spend the whole day with this intriguing woman. These visits were becoming increasingly intimate and I was sure that today she had wanted to share more about her sex life, or indeed the lack of it. She clearly enjoyed having me around. Unfortunately, the presence of her maid and family precluded that.

'At least a coffee?' I nodded. That gave me an idea.

Rebecca had a machine for everything in this kitchen, the one that ground and brewed her own personal blend of Costa Rican beans beat them all hands down. While it was crunching and gurgling, the unique aroma assaulting my nostrils, she looked over my shoulder where my diary was open on the vast table.

'My God, you are a busy man.' She was correct, there were indeed more entries for September than I could remember in any previous month. In this time of post-recession people were improving, not moving.

I shrugged my shoulders, 'Make it while you can.'

She tutt-tutted, 'You should put your health first, Tom, don't get like my husband, and become a workaholic. I was once like that, it's not worth it. Take more time out for a coffee or two.'

Ursula had left the room. Rebecca sat down beside me, her eyes momentarily locked to mine. I smiled to myself, they matched her kitchen. Only her kitchen wasn't saying come to bed with me. In that intimate glance we recognised that there would be something more between us, another level yet to be explored in this unfolding relationship.

'You have kind eyes, Tom, I once had a boyfriend with eyes like yours.' In that instant I knew she too didn't want our meetings to end and was waiting for me to make the next move. 'Is the coffee okay?'

'Perfect, thank you, almost as good as the company.' I continued before she could reply. 'I only drink coffee with my favourite clients.'

Her lips curled, her even white teeth tantalisingly kissable, 'And do I fall into that category, Mr Graham?'

I could see Ursula returning, a box of eggs in her podgy hand, and replied softly, 'If you would like to meet me for coffee sometime, I will let you know.'

Out of sight of the Ukranian, Rebecca placed a soft hand on mine, and whispered, 'Text me.'

Her words excited me and in that instant I knew I was about to start an affair with a married woman, a woman that I fancied very much. But I realised this was uncharted territory for me and I could be walking into a minefield. Apart from her relationship issues, I had to safeguard my own reputation.

While I sipped at my coffee, the first of Rebecca's two sons appeared, yawning and dishevelled. Neither of her offspring had been present on previous occasions. She made the introduction. 'Nicky, this is my favourite garden designer, Thomas Graham. Tom, my elder son, Nicholas.'

We both mumbled a hello, I wondered what his reaction would have been if he knew my intentions towards his mother, furthermore her apparent ones towards me!

Not wishing to intrude upon the early morning family gathering, I knocked back my coffee, picked up my folder and headed for the door. Rebecca followed me out to the porch.

'Don't forget the tree guy is coming this afternoon,' I reminded her.

She nodded and kissed me on the cheek, a lingering kiss most definitely not of the formal kind. For personal reasons I was glad she didn't go for the hug! 'Text me later,' she repeated, and gave me that look again. 'That coffee will have to be somewhere discreet.'

Her perfume stayed with me all day, as did the erection caused by the erotic thoughts buzzing around in my head. In my aroused state, I wondered in whose bed we would celebrate our illicit coupling.

As soon as I was clear of my clients for the day, I scratched around in my head what to say in my text. In the end, lacking inspiration, I simply typed

'coffee?'

All evening I waited on her reply, and as the hours dragged by I grew more disconsolate and believed our conversation earlier was merely excessive flirtation and was wishful thinking that something would develop between us. The woman is married for God's sake, I said to the mirror as I cleaned my teeth, she lives in a big house, two kids, husband clearly loaded. She has everything to lose and, despite everything she shared earlier, probably gets all the sex she wants twice a day. At least with her looks she should damn well do so! All I had to lose was some saved up semen.

In bed, I was absorbed in my Michael Connelly thriller when my mobile rang. It was Rebecca. Detective Harry Bosch would have to wait.

'Hi, Tom, sorry I didn't get back to you, I dropped my mobile on the kitchen floor after I got your text, and had to wait until Dan had gone to bed so I could call you from the car with Nicky's phone.' The intrigue had begun.

'No worries, I just wondered if you got my text, or had changed your mind.'

'No, I do want to meet up with you, away from this bloody house. Just pick somewhere not in this town will you? Too many eyes and mouths here.'

I sat up in my bed, my loins tingling, 'Already did!'

'Hmm, fast worker huh? Where do you have in mind?'

'Do you know Dish at Hampton Court?'

She said she knew of it and we arranged for 11:30 the next Tuesday.

Just to make sure, I asked her where she stood with her husband.

'You really want me to bring him too?' I heard her laugh softly.

'I don't think so, not really.'

'Good, then I won't. And don't you dare bring any work with you.'

'Deal.'

She hung up, and I absentmindedly fondled my aroused cock as I reminded myself to cancel all appointments for next Tuesday.

Tuesday 14th

Full of expectations that morning, I spent twice as long in the shower, shaved away hairs where they were not supposed to be and trimmed those that were. I dressed in some newly purchased Fat Face jeans and navy blue Polo shirt and my favourite suede loafers. Later, I would regret my choice of the recently acquired black loose fitting boxers. A final splash of Paco Rabanne completed the picture.

Allowing for traffic jams which did not materialise, I arrived at the coffee house twenty minutes early and cruised the Bridge Street shops to pass the time. Rebecca decided not to exercise her woman's right to be late, she was in fact too was early. We met up both loitering on the street, neither wanting to be the first inside. We kissed on the cheek and chose a table near the back. Her perfume today was different. She deliberately avoided my eyes when she revealed that it was called

Forbidden Affaire

by Anna Sui. She had purchased it on impulse in John Lewis that very weekend. She was wearing a pale blue knee length skirt and a simple white pleated blouse, faintly revealing the outline of a similar coloured bra.

'Coffee, tea or me?' I asked her, taking her leather jacket.

She laughed nervously, 'I think coffee first, and one of those delicious looking chocolate croissants I saw in the window.'

I was half way to the counter when she called after me, 'Ask them to heat it up, I hate it when they are cold.'

I settled for the same plus a hot chocolate. Good for the libido I had been told by a wise friend with whom I had failed to perform at a critical intimate moment in our brief fiery relationship. The waitress followed behind with the heated patisserie.

For a while we made small talk, each hedging around the main agenda. I was sure Rebecca wanted to continue Friday's unfinished conversation. I purposely waited for her to break the ice. It wasn't long in coming.

'This is nice, Tom, just chatting alone, not being disturbed for once.'

I nodded slowly, 'Especially without the eagle eyes of your maid.'

Rebecca stirred her coffee for the umpteenth time, 'She's okay, she has a good heart. I actually call her my housekeeper.' She looked up at me, 'Do you think this is wicked, us meeting like this?'

'I don't think so, but then I'm not the married one here.' Immediately I regretted the words, and chose the next ones carefully, 'But I can think of far more wicked things we could be doing.'

For a moment, she was silent, and seemed unaffected by the reminder of her marital status. She spoke in barely above a whisper, 'So can I, Tom, so can I.'

I decided now was the time to go for gold and resurrect Friday's discussion, 'For what it's worth, I haven't had coffee out with anyone in six months.'

She responded with a soft laugh, 'You should be lucky, Dan hasn't had coffee with me since last Christmas. In or out, if you get the drift!'

'I do,' I grinned. 'Listen, Becky, you are free to walk out that door over there if I have got this wrong, but I have become very fond of you and I think you have an attraction for me too, and believe we both want this relationship to go into something more personal. If you get the drift this time?'