Seduction Or Betrayal Ch 02

This is part two of a seven-part novella; it should stand alone, but beginning at the beginning is the recommended pattern. 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 sipped delicately at her second cup of green tea and pulled her silky dressing gown tight around her body. It was cool in her kitchen; the sun only started penetrating it in mid-morning and it was still early. She felt nauseous, but the paracetamol she had managed to keep down about half-an-hour ago seemed to have taken the edge off her headache. She glanced again at the soggy sheet of paper which she had smoothed out to dry on the island she perched next to. The ink had run - she'd only realised she was still holding it after several minutes in the shower - but her eyes felt like they were regaining their ability to focus sufficiently to try reading it.

Once she had finished throwing up, she had managed to get into the shower. After about twenty minutes under first tepid and later steaming hot water, she had begun to feel vaguely human again; the generous all-over application of body moisturiser had helped. But she was still groaning intermittently despite the revivifying effects of the warm tea. Sometimes it was because she moved her head to quickly making her vision swim; her stomach was not above reminding her it felt like a screwed up plastic bag with a cupful of battery acid coating it either. But mostly it was because more and more details of the night before kept coming back to her.

'Oh god, I sucked his dick.'

She looked around guiltily even though she knew there was no one there, then moaned again as her head reminded her it was still on her shoulders. She leaned on her hand and closed her eyes. She hadn't given Paul a blow job in she couldn't remember how long. He'd even stopped hinting that he'd like one she realised. The portrait of the stern-faced woman she'd chosen as her birthday present seemed to admonish her from across the room. She had propped it against the food mixer on the work top after unwrapping it, trying to decide where it could be hung to best effect.

'I know, right? What grown woman lets a strange man slap her bottom like that?'

She wriggled in her seat and winced at the discomfort of the residual soreness. She tried to blot the image out of her head. But a traitorous voice somewhere at the back of her head reminded her that it hadn't been a stranger crying

harder

as she writhed and sweated under his firm hand. Yvonne groaned again and reached across the island to draw the damp note closer.

"Dear Yvonne

"

'Huh.'

She realised she was making herself determined she was not going to like whatever John had to say. She told herself to get a grip. What was done was done. What she had to do now was work out how to live with the consequences. Getting all pissy at what after all had been a tango for two was not going to help matters. She focussed her eyes on the bleeding blue script.

"Got to go and give Jacko his walk. He'll be tunnelling his way out otherwise! Thought about making you coffee, but you looked so serene as you slept I didn't want to disturb you. Why don't you come over after you get up? I'll make amends.

Amends? How the hell was he going to make amends for completely fucking up her marriage? She took another sip of tea and a deep breath. Of course he was just offering to make her coffee. She snorted; disgusted with herself

and

with him.

"Last night was fantastic. Better than I imagined it. I shall treasure the memory of an amazing adventure with a gorgeous friend. See you later?

"Love John xxx"

Yvonne started to sob. Hating John and blaming him for everything was not going to work. It had been an adventure - at least the expensive dining and the people they'd met. They were not things people like her did. And what was worse, she thought as two large tears began to roll down her face, one on each cheek, he

was

a friend. She liked him and he her - duh - and that was something she also didn't want to lose. She started as the house phone started to ring, grabbed a tissue from the box on the counter top and gave her nose a good blow. This, she thought to herself, was just what she needed. Paul? John?

'Hello.'

'Vonny. Not too early I hope?'

It was her mother-in-law. Her immediate thought was of the boys.

'Margo. Has something happened? Are the twins OK?'

She heard laughter at the other end of the line.

'They're fine. They just wanted to speak to you. I've been holding them off for about an hour. Didn't want to wake you.'

Five minutes of excited gabble followed as the twins argued with each other about who was going to tell mummy what. Tales of ice cream breakfasts and chocolate cake dinners. Of staying up late and trips to the park. Eventually she heard a patient Margo explain to them that they could tell mummy the rest when they saw her and promise a visit to the sweet shop for treats. The goodbye-I-love-yous were peremptory and Margo's calm voice was back on the line.

'I hope that was OK. They were just so excited. I knew you were going out with your friends. I hope you're not too hungover?'

There was the merest hint of criticism in her voice. Margo was not judgemental. It was one of the many things Yvonne liked about her.

'Nah. In fact I ended up going to a very posh restaurant with a neighbour. The girls all cried off. Food poisoning.'

'It wasn't John or Jacko was it?'

'Jacko's a dog Margo. But how do you know about them?'

In her heart she knew there was no way she was being spied on, but she was wary nonetheless. Margo was laughing again at the other end of the line.

'I knew one of them was. It just wasn't clear

which

. The boys have talked about them all the time. They made me buy them a postcard to give them and they've spoken of little else:

John does this, Jacko does that

.

Her impression of the kids was pretty good.

'They've been trying to teach the cat how to fetch a ball. She's not keen.'

Even Yvonne laughed at the image.

'And they've been telling grandad off for gardening all wrong. It's hilarious. I've been on at the old fart for years to go organic. They've virtually accused him of being solely responsible for global warming and murdering butterflies and birds. Not in those words, of course.'

'It was John who took me. Turns out he is a friend of the owner or the best eaterie in town. The boys

do

like him. He's very patient with them. And he likes them too.'

'Well you can tell him from me he has more influence on them than he imagines. And I approve. But I'll let you get off. You are sounding a little

bleary

shall we say?'

There was a knowing tone to Margo's words. They quickly said their goodbyes - Margo said she could hear the sound of something being broken - and Yvonne went back to her tea. But something about the conversation troubled her. And she wasn't sure what. Then it struck her and she snatched up the note again. There it was in black-and-white. Well various shades of blue anyway.

"Better than I imagined it."

Margo had said something like that.

Better than I imagined it

. The old bastard had been fantasising about fucking her. She pulled the dressing gown tight around her again as if to cover herself from unseen eyes. She felt dirty all over again. How long had he been perving on her? Had he been planning the whole thing since they met? She needed coffee and a long think. She ran upstairs to clean her teeth again while the drink brewed.

Yvonne tried to remember when she had first met John, but she couldn't put her finger on a date. When you have two cute twin babies everyone and their mother wants to coo and cluck. Somehow he became one of those people she nodded at or said

hello

to when she saw them. They'd pass his house most days, sometimes she'd see him going out on, or coming back from a bike ride. He looked pretty trim in Lycra. Other times he'd be working in his front garden or walking Jacko. She remembered well though the first time they'd had a proper conversation.

It was shortly after the boys' second birthday. A wheel on their pushchair had suddenly broken and John had seen her struggling home along his street. If she'd only had one she would probably have stopped using the push chair. Both boys could walk pretty well and if there hadn't been two of them she would have managed to carry them home when they got tired. But with a pair and usually some shopping, she needed the wheels. That day one of them had taken on a life of its own. It was still turning most of the time. But it seemed to want to move in a different direction from all the others. Keeping the buggy on the pavement was proving a struggle.

'Want me to take a look at that?'

'No, it's OK.'

She often asked rhetorically why the English were so bad at accepting offered help, but had to admit she was no better herself. John had laughed and smiled at the boys.

'It clearly isn't, is it? Come on in. My bike tools will probably work on it. You and the lads can play with Jacko in the garden. It'll take half an hour at the most.'

He had the twins chasing Jacko around the lawn in no time, Yvonne stretched out on his garden recliner with a cold drink and the wheel came off easily. He tutted and scratched his head almost professionally as he examined the damage before declaring it deceased.

'Bearings are buggered.'

He retreated into the house for a few minutes before returning, smiling.

'I've ordered a replacement. It'll be here tomorrow.'

Jacko had led an unusual parade back home. Two small hands clutched his lead while John surreptitiously gripped the end and carried her shopping. Yvonne was left bringing up the rear fretting vocally and in vain about the imposition, the cost and compensation. When the pair came round the next day pushing the renovated carriage, the twins greeted them like old friends. John sat patiently with them as their favourite toys and books were displayed before him. Jacko licked jam-covered fingers to much giggling. Yvonne made drinks and attempted to bring adult small talk around to the question of paying him. John left after ruffling the kids' hair, winking at her and refusing point blank anything in the way of cash or kind.

His house slowly became a must-stop break on trips to or from the shops. Often Jacko would be sitting behind the gate waiting for them if Yvonne had any ideas about sneaking by. John declared the boys' help in the garden

invaluable

as he slowly weaned them from splashing water everywhere and uprooting flowers to more constructive fun. Footballs and a pop-up goal appeared, as did a well-stocked biscuit tin. Yvonne began to look forward to adult conversation as they drank regular coffee together and watched Jacko being put through his paces.

The following Spring, as the gardeners prepared to plant vegetable, name plates appeared on two small raised beds and then they had to visit every day so that weeds could be removed and crop growth measured and admired. Even an apologetic Paul was dragged round by his sons one weekend to admire their handiwork. When Yvonne mentioned trying to find time to take up running again - she was concerned she had not regained her figure after the births - it was natural that John's offer to look after the twins while she trained would be accepted. The males added painting and baking to their repertoire and both houses' kitchens became covered in colourful daubs and stubborn dough stains.

As she sat drinking her coffee on the day-after-the-night-before, Yvonne found herself fearful that the physical familiarity which developed between John and her was part of some long-term plot on his part to get exactly what he had got. The kiss on the cheek she had given him in thanks for his wheel-replacement skills somehow morphed into a hug and a kiss each time they met. They'd laughed when she'd slapped his butt after he dismounted following a long-distance bike ride and he'd stroked hers in response. When he supported her in her first half-marathon she solicited a leg massage at the finish; Paul had been away that weekend too. At the time, she had only enjoyed the relief to her aching muscles as he rubbed on liniment and squeezed and stroked. Now, she wondered what had he been fantasising about while he did it? And how many times had he wanked off over a mental image of her since?

Yvonne forced herself to get up and start tidying in anticipation of the return of her husband and children. She grimaced at the sight of the pillows smeared with her make-up; blushed when she found more of it at the bottom of the duvet cover and had to stop herself gagging as she unpeeled two obviously-used condoms from the tops of the bedside tables. The latter she flushed immediately, the bedclothes she put on a hot wash. She found one of the stockings she had been wearing under the bed behind the headboard, the other was balled up in the corner of the room. They were both laddered and one was torn; she binned them. She returned her suspender belt to the bottom of her undies drawer silently promising it would be another six years before she even thought about bringing it out again.

She took a deep breath before pushing open the door of the front room, then let it out with a low whistle when she went in. The housewife in her was pleasantly surprised that it wasn't a complete wreck; the hungover-harlot persona she was trying so hard to dispel was maybe disappointed there was not more evidence of her fall into debauchery. The emerald satin dress lay in a heap on the floor looking for all the world like a secret, Irish pool. She picked it up and tutted at its flimsiness. When she held it against herself to try and smooth out a few creases, she was shocked at how short it was. Why, she chastised herself, hadn't she noticed that yesterday? She couldn't remember how her satin stilettos had ended up beneath the TV standing neatly beside each other. She tried to forget how the panties peeking from beneath the sofa cushion had got where they had.

After she'd rushed her clothes upstairs to wardrobe and laundry basket, she returned. The two coffee cups, the empty champagne bottle and two glasses and the side plates bearing the remains of cheese and cracker crumbs easily fitted on one tray. Once they were taken into the kitchen she vacuumed - more for form than necessity - and opened a window to dispel the guilt more than the faint aroma of fizz. She hung out the washing, put on the dishwasher and managed some toast with a second cup of coffee. The house was clean. All evidence that anything other than another mundane Saturday night had gone on was disposed of; she'd found the dead roach on the back doorstep when she'd taken the bagged-up evidence out to the bin. She had also come to the conclusion that she needed to talk to John. She reached for her mobile. And realised it wasn't there.