Seduction or Betrayal?

This is part one of a seven-part novella. I'm posting all the chapters at the same time so you shouldn't have to wait long for the rest. A

Literotica

Box Set for the summer.

The original idea for this work came following a discussion at the authors' hangout about frustrations with the black-and-white depictions of adultery in the section which cannot be named. So thanks to all who chipped in to that debate.

As usual, comments, criticism and support welcomed.

*****

Yvonne was woken by the first rays of the sun hitting her face on what was predicted to be a beautiful early-Autumn day. She threw her forearm over her eyes to block out the light. She groaned. There was something wrong.

'Shit. Forgot to close the curtains.'

The room felt stuffy and a little claustrophobic. There was an unusual smell too. Not unpleasant; quite nice in fact. She just couldn't put her finger on what it was, She groaned again as she realised she'd not opened a window either. She identified the scent as mostly a combination of her own stale perfume and perspiration from an overheated room. Perhaps there was something else too? Her pre-bed routine had clearly been all to pot. She smiled internally as she thought about her husband Paul's frequent threat to make her sleep in a tent in the garden. Despite being married to her for ten years he was still not comfortable with fresh air in the bedroom; especially in mid-winter.

It was only then she panicked. The boys. She sat up abruptly; regretted it instantly as her head swam and fell back onto the pillow. Hangover. Hadn't had one of those since she couldn't remember when. She took a deep breath to recover both physically and mentally. They were at his mum's. That was why she hadn't been shrieked awake by five-year-old twins full of energy and eager to discover what adventures the new day held. It was the first time since they learned to walk that she could remember

not

being woken by them. She stretched and yawned, eyes still closed. Her body felt unusual too; and it wasn't just the drink. Sort of stiff in places. It was a feeling she knew she knew, but as with the aroma, couldn't immediately explain, like she'd overworked muscles which hadn't been used much recently. And sore, she felt a little raw.

She ran her hands tentatively down her still-slim, five-six frame. Tentatively, because she didn't want to risk sitting up again and peeking under the covers; her head was definitely going to take time to clear. She realised she was naked and moaned again; she'd clearly been too pissed to put on one of Paul's comfortable T-shirts, her normal bed wear. She gently fondled her 34C boobs, enjoying their firmness. Sure they weren't as perky as they were when she was younger. But exercise had ameliorated the ravages of breast feeding and she'd have to be blind not to notice men checking them out. When she made an effort, that is.

She sucked in an involuntary sharp breath when a finger strayed over her left nipple. It wasn't pain, just excessive sensitivity, but the sensation was much the same. She dabbed at the protruding nub with a growing realisation as to why. Normally flat, it was now sticking out. Not the chapel hat pegs she'd sported when suckling two infants simultaneously, but definitely defined. Slowly exploring a wider arc she confirmed her suspicion that a somewhat larger mouth had been taking pleasure there. And biting.

Yvonne let her hand stray lower over her flat stomach and down between her legs to confirm her suspicions of what had gone on last night. The fingers splayed over her mons found no hair. She remembered she had shaved her pussy as a birthday treat to herself when she'd indulged in that hour-long bath the afternoon before, She enjoyed the unusual smoothness of her scraped and moisturised skin. By now, it was all but clear what she'd been up to. The puffy sensitivity of her labia and slight crustiness of dried bodily fluids were the final piece of the jigsaw. She'd been fucked. And fucked good if the smells, aches and deep sense of well-being were anything to go by.

She squeezed her eyelids more tightly shut as if the effort would dispel the pain of a pounding head and stabilise her brain which felt like it was an apple bobbing around in a bucket of water. She slowly stretched her legs straight and felt a different dullness in her buttocks as she pushed her bottom against the giving-firmness of the mattress. She tried a smile. It worked. She was beginning to come round. Her body was telling her brain it had had, what the college mates of her Yorkshire youth would have called, a 'reit, champion shagging'. Her grin widened and she stretched her free arm across the bed. She didn't feel up to uncovering her eyes just yet, but if Paul was up for it. She giggled weakly at her mental

double entendre

. If he was awake, maybe a repeat performance might be possible.

She stretched a leg surreptitiously sideways and patted a hand across to the other side of the bed expecting to contact warm flesh. She didn't. But when she reached the pillow it closed around a sheet of paper and froze.

'Fuck, fuck, fuckity-fuck, fuck.'

She leapt from the bed, instant-tears streaming down her face, and ran for the bathroom. Stepping onto the contents of her upturned purse was painful, but she had more urgent priorities than working out what had happened there. She managed to heave most of her first retching into the vitreous-enamel toilet before collapsing alongside it and continuing to throw up.

'Paul. I'm so sorry.'

She was speaking to no one. Paul was camping in Scotland.

*******

A couple of streets away, on the corner of a quiet suburban avenue and a sometimes-busy main road, John was talking to his dog.

'And you can fuck off too, Jacko.'

He was making a pot of strong coffee to go with the croissants he'd bought from the Italian bakery next to the newsagents when he'd picked up the Sunday papers and trying to decide whether it was warm enough to breakfast on the patio.

'At my age you've got to make the most of every chance you get.'

Jacko stirred in his basket, rearranged his paws over his eyes and his arse more pointedly towards his master. The people at the dog rescue centre had called him a crossbreed and reeled off a list of exotic-sounding potential forebears. John told people who asked he was a mongrel. That's what Jacko would have been called when he was a kid. He was a good friend; a great companion. Breakfast was usually one of their favourite times together, Jacko always willing and eager to finish off any spare bacon or toast. He generally faked attentiveness as John spluttered and complained through newspaper headlines.

'She was gagging for it.'

Jacko wheezed.

'OK, point taken. I should know better than to talk about women that way. But she

was

drunk and randy. What was I supposed to do? Say

no

?'

He loaded a tray with breakfast things and, papers folded under an arm, stomped out to enjoy what might be the last morning sunshine until next year. He settled himself at the teak garden table and tried to enjoy what had become something of a ritual through the short British Summer - coffee, pastries and a close study of the serious newspapers to try, at least, to keep up with the madness that was a world dominated by Brexit and Trump's America while enjoying the comfort of the seasonal warmth combined with the smells, sounds and occasional glimpses up at his beautiful garden.

It took him about an hour to finally admit that his normal routine was not working. He was spending more time gazing vacantly at his flowers and shrubs than reading. The gentle heat as the morning warmed soothed his body and emphasised his satiation. He stretched out his legs and folded his hands behind his head, pushed his neck back and closed his eyes.

'Yvonne.'

Saying her name out loud was an admission to himself of the things which had been preoccupying his mind and body-memory ever since he'd left her house just after dawn. What had they done? Was it worth it? Could they ever go back to just being friends? Jacko scratched at the patio door. The prospect of licking croissant crumbs and the remains of jam and butter from John's breakfast plate had proved too much of a temptation.

'I thought it was just going to be a quiet dinner between two friends, boy. Honest.'

It hadn't even been planned. He knew Yvonne had been pissed off with Paul for agreeing to supervise a field trip with a group of pupils from the school he taught at over the weekend of her birthday. He saw her most days since he'd agreed to look after the twins whilst she went for her run and had followed the change from anger and resentment to acceptance. She had told him about a week before that she had made plans to go out with a group of friends instead and as the day drew closer had become almost enthusiastic about the change.

'I'm almost guaranteed to get legless.'

She had told him on the Friday.

'But I'll have Sunday to recover. Paul'd just better hope I wake up on my own.'

She had run off laughing before he had had time to react. He remembered standing and staring at her pert bum as she jogged away, enjoying the way her muscles rippled inside tight Lycra. It had become a habit lately. If he thought about it at all he would dismiss it as an innocent pleasure, a mature man's appreciation of a beautiful woman. Even when her image came back to him during one of his regular bouts of masturbation, his main sexual release these days.

When he watched her walking down the road the next day as he trimmed his front hedge, it was clear from her body language alone that something had changed. Her heavy tread, bowed head and shoulders slumped inside an outsized jacket were a give away. The bottle of gin she clutched in a tight fist suggested her preferred solution to whatever had happened.

'Something wrong?'

'Fff... Oh, it's you. Sorry, I was miles away.'

Her scowl faded to sullen blankness as she raised her eyes to his face. It looked as if she had been crying.

'Want to come in and talk about it?'

'Nah. I'd be shit company. And anyway, there's nothing you can do about it.'

She turned as if to continue her trudge home.

'Come on. I'll make you a coffee. I could give you your birthday present. Save me a walk.'

She slowly turned back to face him, shrugged and then stepped inside his outstretched arm onto the path. They said nothing as she led him into the house. She'd been there dozens of times with the boys and knew where she was going. She slumped into one of his bent-wood kitchen chairs and put the bottle down in front of her on the scrubbed oak table with a heavy bang.

'Let me take your jacket. Jacko, leave Yvonne alone, she doesn't want you dribbling all over her.'

'He's OK. Aren't you boy?'

She dropped a hand onto his head and scratched diffidently at his wiry pelt. Jacko, always a glutton for attention, hopped up and settled himself heavily on her lap. John forgot the jacket, started making the coffee and let the small dog continue the therapy session. After selecting two of his more tasteful mugs from the cupboard, he went to the fridge for milk. When he returned he gently placed a bottle of champagne on the table next to the carton.

'Happy birthday.'

Yvonne looked up and smiled for the first time.

'John you shouldn't have.'

'My house, my rules.'

He grinned back at her as she turned the bottle to examine the label.

'But this looks really expensive. I couldn't accept it.'

'You think I'm made of money? It's just a small token.'

In reality, the bottle had been there since the New Year. His son had planned to spend the night with him and he'd bought it to mark the passing of the year. Craig had cried off at the last minute and ever since it had remained untouched and in the way, a reminder of his fractured relationship with his kids since their mother had left.

'Well, if you insist.'

'And there's more.'

He added a theatrical flourish to his announcement and Yvonne scanned the kitchen expectantly, searching for what else might look like a present. John glanced at the coffee machine to check how long it would be before it was ready. And reckoning they still had a few minutes to wait gestured with his head for her to get up and follow him.

'Down Jacko. Basket. Come into the studio.'

It took a minute for the reluctant pooch to be dislodged and another for her to brush stray hair from her jeans. John checked his dog was not trying to follow before opening the door into what had been the family dining room when the house had been a home. It was the only part Jacko was banned from and it was clear to anyone who saw it why that was so. There were brushes and half-used tubes of paint everywhere. A half-finished canvas of a still life adorned a large easel in the centre of the room. The flowers and fruit he was painting sat on slender stand a few feet from it. Jacko would have disorganised the organised-chaos in less than a minute.

'Take your pick.'

John gestured to the finished canvases stacked against one of the walls. There were about ten or fifteen of them varying in size from eight-by-twelve to one that was four feet across at its widest. Yvonne looked like she had been invited into Aladdin's cave. Whilst she was familiar with John's house and garden, the boys loved coming here and John was an indulgent neighbour, his studio was sensibly off-limits. Two small boys in a room like this would have done more damage than an enthusiastic dog. She had occasionally peeked into it when the door had been left open, but this was the first time she had actually entered the sanctum.

'No.'

'Yes. You'll be doing me a favour. They just sit there gathering dust. Take whichever you like.'

He led her over to the stack and picked out one of the larger paintings. It was a bowl of fruit set on a white cloth. John's self-critical eye told him the colours were a tad too garish, but he remembered how pleased he had been to capture the folds and textures of the fabric. Yvonne's hand went to her mouth and she gasped.

'John, it's beautiful.'

'Thank you. It's yours if you want it.'

'No. I really couldn't. It's not that I don't like it, it's just too big for the size of our rooms.'

She put a hand on his forearm in case she had inadvertently offended him. He responded by slipping an arm around her shoulder and giving her a friendly hug.

'I'll go and check on the coffee. You take your time going through them.'

He stopped at the door and put on a stern face as Yvonne tentatively approached his finished works.

'And don't even think about coming out empty-handed. I'll be insulted.'

He left before she had a chance to make any more protests. Jacko was sitting by the kitchen door waiting for him when he got there. He was pleased he had managed to dissipate her mood slightly. Yvonne had long admired the paintings he hung on every available wall-space in the house. He couldn't think why he hadn't offered her one before.

Yvonne did as she was told. John was half-way through his coffee and the morning paper by the time she came back to the kitchen. She was smiling coyly as she entered and bent down to to pat a welcoming Jacko. John folded his paper, took off his reading glasses and looked across at her before getting up to pour her coffee as they both waited for the other to speak first. It was him who broke and held out a hand for the canvas.

'You've made your choice then?'

Yvonne had been holding the two-foot-by-eighteen-inches frame with the picture towards her. She slowly turned it so he could see the image. John nodded. It was a full-face portrait of a woman. The model was one of the assistants from the newsagents. She had a serious expression and a piercing stare which was somewhat at odds with his faux-naive style. He had originally given her the painting but she had brought it back to him after her husband's vehemently-negative reaction.

'Yes. I love this one.'

'And it's the right size for the room you want to put it in?'

'That as well. But there's something so defiant about her look.'

John nodded his acknowledgement and retrieved a roll of bubble-wrap, tape and scissors from various parts of the kitchen. He knew his style was derivative: part Modigliani, part Matisse with more than a smattering of Picasso. But most of the people who saw his work were not experts. And they tended to love it - Yvonne's expression told him she was definitely one of those - or hate it. He didn't really care. Painting was one of his own therapies. Much better than booze and less tiring than cycling. He quickly wrapped the gift before returning to stand behind a now-seated Yvonne.

'Let me take your jacket and then you can tell me what's got you so irritated.'

After she stood and shrugged off her coat, she impulsively turned and kissed him on the cheek. She grinned at his surprise and circled her arms around the outside of both of his in one of the most awkward hugs on record.

'Thanks, John. You're a true friend. You've changed the day from disaster to one I'll always remember.'

She kissed his cheek again and when he looked down into her face he thought he could see the beginnings of fresh tears. He just stood there and let her continue the embrace. He drank in the smell of her shortish blonde hair as she laid her head on his shoulder enjoying a moment of peace. He couldn't remember when he had last held a woman in his arms. Sort of.

'And are you pinioning me like this to stop me going through your jacket pockets? Or are you worried I might lose all control and start pawing at your bottom?'

The shock of his suggestion made her release him, step back and start snorting with laughter. He could see that her eyes had been filling as she wiped them with the back of her hand. He covered any embarrassment by holding out the chair for her to sit and rearranged her coffee in front of her before retiring to the other side of the table.

The story was not long in the telling. And when she finished, he was pleased to see she was laughing. John already knew that Paul had forgotten the date completely and booked himself in to take a class away. He knew Paul was angling for promotion and even Yvonne

understood

once she'd got over her anger and disappointment. She had been enthusiastic when describing her anticipation of going out on the town with her girl friends. That was before they had all decided to go out for a meal the night before - Yvonne had been delivering the twins to her mother-in-law's or she would have gone with them - and contracted violent diarrhoea and vomiting from improperly stored prawn cocktails.

John had tried hard not to laugh when Yvonne related the first of the telephone calls she had received that morning. But when she started ranting about the husband of her oldest chum who had suggested she might like to come over and babysit so that he could go out with his mates while his wife lay dying, John started to smile, then chuckle and finally to shake with silent laughter. Yvonne tried to continue, but soon she was laughing too. She reached across to punch John in the arm as she tried to regain some control.

'You men are all bastards. You don't think of anyone but yourselves.'

She was still smiling though. John put his hand on his chest and tried to look solemn. After about three attempts he succeeded.

'You're right. And please allow me to apologise. On behalf of Paul; on behalf of your friend's silly husband; on behalf of all the rest of us poor, benighted males, I am truly, truly sorry.'

Yvonne scrutinised his face trying to assess the precise degree of disingenuity he was guilty of. She stuck out her tongue, still smiling.

'So what are you going to do, this evening?'

Yvonne flicked the gin bottle which emitted a dull ring.