First, a warning - this story is based around a "Loving wives" theme. If that gives you issues, you are going to have to grind your way to the end, some 50,000 words away before you can grumble. Ask yourself, is it really worth the effort?
The second warning is, the first 2 1/2 sections are substantially the same as an earlier submission of mine "Emergence".
Thanks to "Blackstallion21" for editing support.
Chapter7
Sunlight, bright and yellow, was visible around the edges of the curtains when Rachael woke. It seemed a good metaphor for her mood. She felt, quite simply, wonderful; as though she'd received a transfusion of energy, of enthusiasm for life. There was none of the physical tiredness she that she should have felt.
Patrick's warm body lay along her right flank; she felt the softness of his penis against her hip. His breathing was steady and slow, apparently still deeply asleep. Rachael decided she had no intention of moving for some time. It was far better to lie there, and enjoy the moment. Her mind drifted over the events of the night before; of the expression on Patrick's face when she'd let the dress slip from her shoulders; of his climaxing in her mouth, and her imbibing his semen; ...and most of all, the intensity of their coupling. Her fingers crept to her crotch and thighs, noting the mess of crusted semen and fluids, and the still-warm moist patch under her. Despite the clamminess, she was content to remain still. She'd clean up later; now wasn't the time.
As she mused, that serenity itself perplexed her, albeit slightly. It wasn't satiation as such. She could already feel stirrings of anticipation for what else the weekend would bring, especially physically. She'd moved her hand up to her right breast, its fingertips teasing the nipple. The alacrity with which it responded spoke volumes about her readiness for further arousal. No, it was something other than that. It took her some time to formulate the thought; the perplexity came, she realised, from a near total lack of feelings of guilt. Why would that be? Could it be simply that the sex, the gratification was just so good that guilt was swamped? Rachael thought again, of their love-making, of the rapid progression from sleepy relaxation to raw passion, and of the stellar orgasm it'd brought her. That, perhaps, summed up the difference between this, and her routine sex with Alistair; there, she could never come from penetration alone. Here, she was on the edge of it within moments of being taken, and with only cursory foreplay to prepare her beforehand. How could anyone be expected to resist that?
Even so, she couldn't help but ponder further. At least some sense of iniquity was there. But the knowledge of transgression only added to the excitement. That she was there at all was violation enough. That she could enthusiastically perform acts here that she denied her husband only compounded the excitement. To have consumed Patrick's come, savouring the sensation of it squirting against the roof of her mouth, enjoying the salt-piquancy, then drinking it down! And still, she found herself revelling in the idea of allowing his ejaculation inside her exposed flesh. In reality, she had to admit, the actual sensation hadn't been notably different until Patrick had come, but the concept was overwhelmingly intoxicating.
Rachael recollected the building sense of anticipation she'd felt in the time between confirming that Patrick would meet her, and arriving at the Gatehouse last night. It's only been a few weeks or so between the plans becoming concrete and their realisation, but that short time had dragged. The night she'd received the text message saying he'd be there, she'd woken at about 3am. Alistair had been unconscious beside her, as she'd envisaged what was to come. She'd ended up silently rubbing herself to climax, the corner of the pillow in her mouth muffling her sighs. It was then she'd determined to sample those acts untried with Alistair. In fact, self-relief had become a consistent theme of those days; even at work, on the morning before setting off here, she'd had to secrete herself in a washroom cubicle, in order to be able to concentrate on her tasks for the day.
She was ready now for yet more sex; she knew, more than ready. Patrick remained sound asleep, however. Rachael considered masturbating, but rejected the idea. Patrick's arm was thrown across her, limiting her movement; and somehow, it seemed inappropriate, when a skilled lover was available. Maybe better to facilitate the next bout, instead. Gently lifting Patrick's arm, moving from under it, she slipped from under the warm sheets. The room was cold. Best to see to that now, so she could restart the electric heaters. For further effect she quietly opened the door of the stove, she added some kindling, a firelighter, then a couple of larger logs. After applying a match-flame she closed the door and opened the air valve to its widest extent. ...Now, to get cleaned up. She tip-toed to the bathroom, and once inside, wiped herself clean with a soaped cloth. She douched herself.
She checked her diaphragm, applying a generous dose of spermicide. On the back of the door was the warm fleece robe she'd hung there before going out the previous night. It was hardly the erotic image she wanted to convey, but she knew that downstairs, the kitchen would be chilly. Duly insulated, she ventured down the stairs.
Once in the kitchen, she began to prepare a breakfast, with characteristic efficiency. For herself; she made a bowl of cereal, and for Patrick; bacon, eggs and toast, and coffee for both of them. The eggs and bacon were quickly done and placed in the warming oven as Rachael sat to eat her own repast, and to wait for the kettle to boil. As she ate, she noticed she'd left her handbag in the kitchen on the previous evening. Admonishing herself for her carelessness, she reached for it to check its contents. All was well, until she unzipped the front compartment, finding a flat parcel of pink tissue paper. How could she have forgotten her impulse buy of the previous afternoon?
She took up the package. There was no seal of any sort - it was just artfully folded translucent paper. The contents were of a light, wine coloured silk. As she lifted them out, unfolding them they were revealed to be a garment; a short chemise, sensually soft. It was gathered just below the bust-line. Above, it was mostly – in fact, all – lace, forming cups and straps crossing at the back. It was beautiful.
She stood, and slipped the fleece robe from her shoulders. She held the garment up to herself. It stopped perhaps half-way between her navel and her pubis, entirely exposing her pubic hair. She felt an urge to slip it on fully, and did so. Craning her neck, she checked the rear. It would leave the globes of her rear mostly exposed. She approved.
The tissue paper bundle was still lying where she'd left it. In it, there was a scrap of silk and lace. A pair of pants, skimpy in the extreme, obviously intended as part of the outfit. She reached for them and stopped. Should she put them on? The idea of serving Patrick's breakfast with her mons and bottom exposed, suddenly appealed to her. Slipping the fleece robe back on – even in an increasing state of anticipation, she couldn't completely ignore the chill – she sat. The kettle was singing, close to boiling. Taking a tea-towel, she lifted it, filled the coffee percolator, and set it on the heat. Any time now, surely, it would boil.
She found herself thinking of the evening before last. The early evening of Thursday had been utterly routine, considering the preparations she was undertaking. When she got in, Alistair had been on the phone, confirming his plans for the weekend.
"No problem. I've the place to myself. Rachael's away, some girl's get-together with an old school friend."
The lie had caused her a moment's discomfort – but not sufficiently to deter. They chatted on the minutiae of their respective days throughout supper. As she loaded plates into the dishwasher, Alistair busied himself making coffee, finished and poured. As she finished, she'd casually said:
"I'll have mine upstairs. I just need to pack."
In the bedroom, Rachael worked quickly; she'd largely worked out in advance what she wanted to take. She took the items from her wardrobe and spread them on the bed. She began the process of packing them into her overnight bag.
Rachael worked quickly, digging into the bottom of her wardrobe, selecting shoes. Then, she extracted the drawer in which she kept the various items of lingerie he's bought over the years, intending to select quickly. At random, she selected an item, and held it up for inspection. It was a short, white silk slip, something Alistair had bought for her. "Not this," she thought -"It fits me well, but a bit virginal for this weekend."
She tossed it back into the drawer. Picking another item, she again lifted it, holding it against herself. It was a polo necked mini-dress, made from sheer nylon. One of Alistair's favourites, almost completely transparent, she'd never been keen on it. She did have to admit that it somehow made her breasts look impressively large, however. A definite "yes", so into the bag it went. She'd forgotten how much of this stuff she'd been bought her over the years. She'd had her own favourites, of course. Usually those were simpler; more feminine, less obvious. As she worked through the tangle however, the "yes" pile represented more of a mixture than she'd have imagined. There was the stretch mesh slip; the quarter cup bra and pants set; the embroidered green silk bustier. She had few other items all bundled quickly into the overnight bag. Accompanying them were several new pairs of stockings, acquired specially.
She'd just finished working through the contents of the draw, when she heard Alistair setting the alarm downstairs. She was able to draw shut the zipper of the bag, and place it in the hallway, and to close her bathroom door behind her, as he arrived in the bedroom. Drawing a bowl of hot water, she commenced her usual evening toilet. Always a source of irritation to Alistair, she was near religious about treating herself with various creams, scrubs and other unguents, in the cause of preserving her skin. It was never a quick process.
Alistair busied himself with his own preparations; planning an early start the following day, he selected suit, underwear shirt and tie; leaving them hanging out on the landing. She heard him moving round, then again the bedroom door opened, and she heard the keys fall to the floor by the bag, then the creek of the bed as he lowered his heavy frame onto it. With all her tasks complete bar one, she squirted hand-cream into her palms, and re-entered the bedroom. Still wringing her hands to apply the cream, she walked around the bottom of the bed.
Alistair was already under the duvet, and appeared to be settling for the night. She'd slid in alongside him.....
The screech of the kettle's whistle broke her train of thought. Filling the coffee-pot, she finished assembling the tray. The curve of the stairs called for concentration and care, so she was unable to resume her reminiscence.
The bedroom had warmed nicely, so she placed the tray on the dressing table, before adjusting the heat of the stove. She put the coffee pot on top of it, to stay warm. Patrick still seemed sound asleep. It gave her the chance to check her appearance in the mirror, to apply a little lipstick. Rachael took up the tray, bearing it to his bedside.
"Ahem. Sir had ordered Room Service?"
Patrick opened bleary eyes, taking a moment to focus. When he had, a smile spread across his narrow features.
"What excellent service. I shall have to stay here again."
"We'd be very glad to have you, Sir"
His smile widened to a grin.
