This is the last instalment in the 'London, 2020' series. Thank you for reading.
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"So, Callie. Did you look in my wallet?"
Shit.
I consider a few answers.
Yes. No. What wallet, Kris?
In the meantime his gaze steadily holds mine, as second after second ticks by. He's not afraid of the silence, but I can match him for that. Another second. And another. It's getting uncomfortable and I'm just about to stammer out something vague when I feel a sudden surge of anger. Who the hell does he think he is?
"I was thinking about it. I didn't, though. I hadn't realised it was a fucking test."
My tone is frostier than I'd intended. I swear I see a glint of pure malevolence in his eyes; and then his face creases into a massive grin.
"What?!" I'm even more annoyed now. "What's so bloody funny?"
Kris laughs out loud, delighting in my discomfort and confusion, before lowering his head to kiss me. I try to back away but he holds me fast, his lips pressing hard on mine, his hands coming up to capture my arms before I've barely had a chance to raise them. Bastard. My struggle is utterly futile, ludicrously weak...and exciting.
Fine, I think. Kris wants a fight - I'll give him one. I wriggle and squirm against him, my movements as fake as a Vegas showgirl, deliberately rubbing my breasts against his smooth, firm chest and pretending to shy away as his tongue forces its way between my lips. His erection is already thickening against my thigh. As he comes up for air, the mischievous grin is still in place.
"You're a good actress, Callie," he says mockingly, "Very good indeed."
I grin back this time, and mime another sexy jiggle. We collapse in howls of laughter, rocking the bed frame.
When we've recovered and he's holding me tenderly again, there's another silence - a comfortable one this time. Kris is the first to break it.
"I don't know why I did the wallet thing, really. I suppose I'd guessed you were a bit of a player, Callie. I knew the minute you came up with those carrier bags full of food in that cute little summer dress. Pure Stepford wife. You were too good to be true."
"And you wanted to see how far I'd go?"
"Something like that."
He gazes down at me, a new softness in his look. He delicately runs a finger down my cheek and says, quietly,
"Somewhere between 100 and 150, I think. I don't really count."
I frown, baffled by the apparent non-sequitur, and then I suddenly remember what the question was. Christ. My eyebrows raise so high I think they'll shoot off my forehead.
Kris laughs again.
"Well, you did ask."
+++
Need I bore you with the details of the week that follows? I cook. I clean. I inspect the fridge what seems like 357 times a day. I pour oil on troubled waters, breaking up the children's petty squabbles, and try and make a vague attempt to police their homeschooling. I'm sick of lockdown. Everybody is. I rejoice in the news as the numbers decrease, the infection rate slowly dwindling, but I ache at the thought of losing my lover. Once life returns to normal, we will have to go back to our old lives, but the changes will leave their legacy. When Kris moves away, will I continue to see him? Could I make plausible excuses for nights away from the family home?
In my mind's eye I see Kris.
Of course you could, Callie
, he taunts.
In the bath, lazing in the warm bubbles, I think about all the women he's slept with. 150? Really? I try to picture the number, all of them gathered together. A decent-sized church congregation. A meeting of executives in a hotel conference room. The world's biggest dinner party.
We didn't discuss my previous lovers, although I'd say Kris has the measure of me well enough. I never played a numbers game in my younger days but loved the thrill of the chase if an opportunity presented itself. Having married relatively young my wild nights soon became sedate; the sweaty Soho nightclubs were swapped for classical concerts at the Wigmore Hall; raucous house parties became polite cheese and wine evenings. And so it went on: a calm, well-ordered, cultured life. Or a boring, mundane, passionless life?
What is life now, anyway? Tedious queues for coffee and bread. Half-empty high streets, shuttered shops. People nervously dodging each other, hopping on and off pavements, as jumpy as crickets. Small gatherings in outdoor spaces having finally been approved by our failing government, the British weather has naturally arrived to put a dampener on the summer. Drizzly days with gusty winds now greet me every morning when I draw the curtains.
I no longer spy Kris in his garden, toning his hard body; neither does he send me emails, as his work is consuming much of his time. Other than our passionate Thursday afternoons, he might as well not exist, which makes our continuing affair feel all the more surreal.
I gaze down at the water, as if the milky, swirling depths were a crystal ball. What does the future hold? For any of us?
+++
On my Wednesday shopping outing in the village I buy a bag of fat cherries, glistening and warm and damson black. I secrete them in a corner of the attic and sneak them over the road on Thursday.
Kris is wearing jeans and a navy blue linen shirt I've not seen before, and looking ridiculously handsome, his torso supple and firm under the loose fabric. I'm accustomed now to the routine - tea, laughter, sex - and there seems no sign of the mutual attraction fading. Will it? Should it? The strange times we inhabit don't allow for that sort of questioning and I try to put it from my mind.
I think I look pretty good myself, today. Earlier in the week I'd had a brainwave and talked the family into a home 'spa day' - giving the kids manicures and deep conditioning hair treatments in a steam-filled bathroom. Not only did it lift everyone's spirits, it gave me a legitimate excuse to do some serious grooming in preparation for another private rendezvous with my lover.
My nails are painted seashell pink and I've put on a full face of make-up, blending eyeshadows in coffee and olive-green, smudging in lots of kohl and finishing with two coats of mascara. My tawny brown eyes look huge and sexy. I'm wearing tight jeans and a navy cashmere sweater with a low neckline that skims my shoulders.
Today I'm oblivious to the state of the world. Let the future bring what it may; Kris is here, right now, approaching me with a lustful gaze.
"How are you, Callie?"
"Not bad. Bit embarrassed by the outfit match - I didn't mean to come dressed as you," I deadpan, nodding at our navy ensembles.
He laughs. "Well, you could always take your clothes off..."
We grin; there's a minute's pause...
"Race you!"
A half-pantomime ensues - tops dragging over heads, zips flying undone - and we're still laughing when we're both naked. With no ceremony Kris drags me on to the carpet and wraps his strong body around me, kissing me with obvious delight. I squeak as the embrace gets a fraction too tight and he releases me with an apologetic grin.
"Sorry." He gently kisses the tip of my nose. "You're so small, little one."
I know he loves my diminutive size and I mockingly play up to it, pounding on his chest with miniature fists, making him snort with laughter. Joke over, I raise an eyebrow and lick my lips.
"Shall we see how big my mouth is?"
Moments later he's sitting back on the sofa while I kneel between his legs. I start with a little show to tease him - licking and sucking my fingertips slowly and sensuously, closing my eyes and performing a full oral display that makes him groan even before I touch him. I deliberately make my fingers very wet before using both hands to inch back his foreskin. I lower my head and start licking the head of his cock with a stiff tongue, then circle it round and round. I open my mouth very wide and slide him between my lips, deeper and deeper, making tiny noises of discomfort as I try to accommodate his huge size.
Once I can take him no further I begin to suck and swallow, over and over until my jaw aches. Daringly, I pull all the way back and let droplets of saliva fall from my lips on to his cock, the drips running down his shaft. It's messy and wet and he loves it. As he starts to shift uncomfortably I know it's time to play another game.
I scramble for my bag and find the warm, ripe cherries. I pick one of the best and touch it to his swollen tip, licking him and the fruit in unison, then I start gently nibbling, licking and teasing. Soon there is ruby liquid running down my chin and his cock tastes of cherry juice. Unable to restrain himself, Kris leans forward and hoists me up to sit astride him. We feed each other with cherries, lasciviously licking every place that the juice drips. The room is filled with the sound of soft moans, low laughter and occasional shrieks of surprise. Soon we're unable to stand the sticky delight any longer and the fruit is forgotten as we surrender to passion.
Writhing in his lap, I feel his erection stiff and bulky against my bottom. Does he have any condoms here, away from the bedroom? Does he know how wet and open and ready I am? As always, Kris can somehow read my body and mind. He abruptly breaks off, mid-kiss, and we lean our foreheads together, eyes locked in expectant longing. Slowly, purposefully, he runs his hands to the backs of my thighs and gently raises my bottom. Hypnotised by his gaze, I allow him to lift me into position...but...
"Kris...are we..."
"It's okay. I won't come inside you. Trust me?"
Trust me.
The last time Kris spoke those two words they were followed by orgasms I had only ever dreamed of...
I don't speak but Kris senses the wave of desire surging through me. I'm giving more than consent - this is total surrender. In an instant his cock is plunging upwards into my cunt, filling me completely. We really are doing this. The risk of not using a condom is unbearably exciting and I cry out, begging him to fuck me. He doesn't need asking twice...
With unbelievable restraint Kris uses me like a toy, finding one new position after another, never tiring. Now he is on top of me and my legs are wrapped around his neck; now I'm on all fours on the floor as he fills me again and again, both of us moaning but trying to hold back from the release of orgasm.
Orgasm. Will he? Can I truly trust him? My moment's doubt is obliterated as Kris begins to speed up his thrusting, his naked cock feeling even bigger than before. I can't control my cries now and I close my eyes, wanting this feeling to go on forever. But he has clearly (finally) reached his limit. With a huge groan he pulls out and catches his breath. I collapse on to my front, letting go of the pressure on my knees and wrists.
With a low laugh, Kris rolls me over and I look up at him adoringly. His cock is glistening with my juices and there's sweat on his brow. Never idle for a minute, he begins to play lazily with my pussy, using expertly light fingers, keeping my excitement simmering.
"Beautiful, Callie. You're gorgeous inside."
This is something I've never really considered.
