Jessie 8

Prologue

Dear Jessie

Well, after three long years it's finished and, as promised, I'm sending you the ms in hard copy. Please let me know what you think of it and if there's anything you take exception to.

It is our story -- yours, mine and Ira's. You'll see that I've used your letters pretty much verbatim, and Ira gave me all the stuff he'd written (as therapy he said) about his marriage to Deborah, and his affair with you. That was almost a book in itself. I've had to tidy it up a bit, but I think his voice still comes through. Tell me what you think.

Fingers crossed it's true what they say about sex selling because I've really excelled myself at how much of it I've been able to cram between two covers. To say that my book contains some scenes of a sexual nature would be a misrepresentation under the trade descriptions act -- it contains hardly any scenes that aren't. I do worry about that a bit. John Updike wrote somewhere about our sexual interest being inexhaustible. I hope he was right and that I haven't tested that proposition to destruction.

But even putting the hard-core stuff aside, I don't think the overall narrative is lacking in interest. An erotic romance it may be, but as you know better than anyone, it's based on real events and I'm hoping that the intensity of the love story will carry the reader along.

I've had some positive feedback, but so far, no main-stream publisher has made me an offer so I intend to go with Kindle. I'll publish the book in serial form in episodes of four to six thousand words. There's been one bit of bad luck though -- the free to view website I used to publish on has gone down, apparently never to return. I'd had well over a hundred thousand views there and I've now lost access to all those readers some of whom might have become purchasers. Oh well, C'est la vie!

By the way, the last time we skyped I forgot to ask what you thought of my pen-name. You have to admit that Lexie Mueller is a lot more exotic and memorable than Jackie

Miller which, in any case, is a bit too close to Jackie Collins for comfort.

One last thing my lovely: I'm dedicating the book to you and Ira both, but the following piece -- which won't make it into the book proper -- is for you alone.

Do you remember that day we spent together at Red Ridge? -- I'll never forget it. Your parents had gone away on business, and, thinking they could use his accountancy skills, they'd asked Ken to go with them. It was the only time we ever had a house to ourselves and such bliss to be free from any anxiety about possible interruptions.

We'd just driven back from the beach. We were both dressed alike with open shirts over our bikinis, and I remember thinking how sexy you looked, and wanting very much for you to feel the same about me. I was quite desperate with longing for you.

You made omelets and a salad for us to share and opened a bottle of wine. After we'd finished eating you cleared the plates away, fetched a pack of cards, and laid it on the table between us. Then you looked at me, all faux innocence, and said, 'Do you want to cut? We can play for forfeits.'

Less than ten minutes later you were topless -- sitting with your forearms on the table, and your naked breasts resting on them like two birds side by side on a bough. I couldn't take my eyes off them. Then suddenly you stood up and announced, 'To hell with this; there's got to be something better to do,' and, taking my hand, led me into the curtained alcove where the bed was that you shared with your husband.

And what happened there took my breath away. My darling Jess, you were amazing! Who would have thought it of my shy and gentle friend that she could be so forceful, so controlling?

We stood at the foot of the bed kissing. Your eyes were deep, dark pools which, looking into mine, dispelled all my doubts. We shucked off our remaining clothes, and now, fully naked, breast to breast, embraced, grinding our pubes together, intermingling pussy hairs (and swapping them, I bet). Then you cupped your hands over my breasts (almost as if you were measuring their cup-size as much as fondling them), pushed me down onto the bed, and laid on top of me, and covered my face and body with tiny kisses. And you buried your nose in my bush breathing in (as you later told me) its beachy sun-struck fragrance, and licked my briny cunt.

The walls of my vagina were already quaking when suddenly you left off. I heard myself wailing, 'Don't stop! Oh please, don't stop!' And I was still wailing when you plugged my mouth with your tongue. Then I felt your hands behind my knees, pushing my legs up till they were pressing on my breasts; and I held them there for you while, briefly, though quite briskly, you consoled my poor bereft cunt with two artful fingers. And then you got hold of my ankles and stretched my legs as far back as they would go, so my ass was lifted up off the bed, and now I'm holding on to my feet, which, with their soles facing upwards, were resting on the pillow, way past my head.

I can remember like it was yesterday: my body rising vertically from the bed -- held there by your chest as you knelt behind me; your breasts soft against my back; your two hands resting on the crest of my upturned ass -- parting its cheeks; my pussy-hair, newly trimmed and sleek as a shaved lawn, lying like a dark veil across my pubes -- hiding nothing. Looking between my thighs, at where my belly ends, I can see two plump mounds -- fuzzy hillocks -- between which the shaft of my clit, like a tiny cannon, is nestling, its tip peeping out from under its concealing hood.

And you've got me so bent over I can actually see into my cunt -- where you're parting it with your fingers -- and It looks like a coral cave. Then your head bows between my thighs like a pilgrim at a shrine, and I watch your tongue dipping in and out of me and flicking against my twitching clit. All white, it seems at first, like a cat's that's been lapping cream.

And then you replace your tongue with your fingers, stroking the anterior wall of my vagina, where the G spot, if it exists, is supposed to be. And it's as if there's a garden pond inside of me. And with your two fingers moving in and out of me so vigorously, my cunt is squelching -- like when you walk on soggy ground. And suddenly -- Oh my god! -- I feel it gushing. Have I pissed myself -- for how else could I be so wet without having had a man inside me to make me so?

But you weren't fazed at all, were you my lovely Jess? You bent down and gave my swollen cunt a parting kiss. And with that sweet smile I can always see whenever I think of you, you said: 'Jackie; darling; it's not; believe me it's not! No way! That's as fresh and as sweet as a mountain stream.'

The older I get the more vivid these memories become. Perhaps it's the same for you and you won't need this aid-memoir. But please indulge me anyway, and accept these images as a gift -- my adorable, kind, and ever gentle friend -- from

Your always devoted, always loving Jackie.

'I don't know how you put up with it,' Deborah Miller said. She took another sip of coffee and studied her young friend across the rim of her cup, 'I wouldn't,' she added, 'not for a moment.'

Jessie gazed down at the table and thought for a while before replying. 'It'll probably surprise you, me saying this, but to be honest I'm not sure I care all that much. I know you're supposed to, but I kind of figure it's a guy thing and you've got to expect it -- especially considering where Ken comes from. I'm pretty sure his dad was the same.'

The older woman lowered her cup and held it cradled in her hands. 'Maybe you're right;' she said. 'Maybe they're all the same.' She hesitated for a moment, then added, 'You know, last time he went away Ira had it off with a bar-girl in Taiwan.'

'Whaaat? Are you saying he told you about it?'

'Right after he got back we had this amazing fuck -- I came four times at least -- massive orgasms, one right after the other. It was incredible! I asked him: where did you learn that, and he thought -- rightly as it happens -- that I'd guessed he'd had some strange and came clean. I was so pissed off! I whacked him across the face while he was still on top of me. Turns out he hadn't learned it from her at all, he'd just read about it in a book he'd bought there.'

Jess laughed. 'Gee, I don't think I'd want to hit anyone who'd just made me come four times; maybe I should buy that book for Ken. Fuck! Four times! That's never happened to me. To be honest I don't think Ken fancies me that much anymore. Not since Hetty was born. The last time we had sex he told me I was about as animated as a log so I guess it's to be expected he'd look for it elsewhere.'

'How can you let him put you down like that? If the sex is not that good mightn't that be as much his fault as yours, or more even? Look, like I said, I was pissed off with Ira but it was a one off -- or so he tells me, and he was a long way away. At least he didn't shit on his own doorstep like Ken is doing. You really should stop being so passive.'

'You say that, but maybe that's what keeps him hooked. He's a sexy little guy, he works hard and he's a good provider. As for me -- I'm a lazy cow who wants to do as little as possible and I guess being compliant and accommodating is how I get away with it. It might not be very admirable, but you know me -- anything for a quiet life.'

Debbie has no answer to this and the two friends fall into a companionable silence. The sky above them is a peerless blue. In the tree overhanging the verandah, two parrots squabble noisily until one flies off and the other, unwilling, it seems, to let the matter drop, follows in hot pursuit. Their brilliant colors flash briefly against the green foliage and they're gone.

When at last Deborah speaks again, it is with some reticence: 'I probably shouldn't be telling you this, but since Ira's been away Ken's come on to me quite a few times -- like, you know -- when we're rehearsing. I don't know, maybe I've encouraged it. Do you think I might have -- has he said anything?'

Jessie finds herself wondering whether matters might not have advanced beyond the come on to me stage already, but, pushing the thought to one side, says, 'No, but I can't say I'm surprised; you're a good-looking woman; in the circumstances, it'd be odd if there wasn't some attraction. Actually, I think it's been a bonding experience for the four of us, even though me and Ira only feature as part of the audience. Anyway, don't feel you've got to hold back on my account.' Her own words surprise her and it's not clear, even to her, whether she's really as indifferent as she sounds -- or has she a premonition that further down the line there may be something in it for her as well?

Debbie is surprised too, she asks, 'Are you really telling me you wouldn't mind?'

But Jess doesn't reply -- something has attracted her attention. She is gazing intently towards the field where the horses are. She gets up and, leaning forward with her arms on the balustrade -- counts them off. There's Ira's chestnut gelding; Debbie's bay mare; the children's painted ponies; and they're all grazing. All, that is, except Comanche: the little skewbald that Ira's supposed to be breaking in for her, is lying flat on his side quite motionless. It has taken all of five minutes for her to register that the whole time she has been watching, the horse has not moved a muscle. She tells Deborah, 'I think there's something wrong with Comanche,' and is about to run across to the field, when the horse raises its head and neck from the ground, struggles to its feet, and starts to graze nonchalantly. Jess wonders if she should take the pony back into pasture with Devil -- Ira has never broken a horse before and is trying to teach himself from a book -- but now she sits back down and ponders Debbie's question. When eventually she replies, she speaks hesitantly.

'Well maybe a bit, but he's going to go on doing it anyway; it might seem strange, but I'd rather that it was with you than with someone I don't know.'

'You're being very open minded,' Deborah says, 'but it would feel like taking advantage. Look, me and Ira have been together fifteen years now; sex is okay when it happens but I can't pretend to be that keen and Ira knows it. You know he wanted me to go on this trip with him -- I think he thought it could be a second honeymoon.'

'Why didn't you go?'

'I thought the kids were too young to leave -- even with their grandparents. Sandra's only just turned three after all.'

As one who will seize any opportunity to take a holiday without the encumbrance of a child, Jessie finds it difficult to get her head around this. Hetty's not yet five and several times already she's been left with her grandparents while her parents holiday abroad. It doesn't appear, Jess thinks, to have done her any harm.

'Anyway,' Deborah goes on, 'before he left, Ira asked me if I still loved him and I told him yes, I loved him like a brother. He wasn't happy. He made it pretty clear that if I didn't want him anymore he'd go elsewhere. Now you're telling me Ken's not that keen either. So I'm wondering -- what would you think to a swap around? Mightn't that liven things up a bit for all of us? I mean, you do fancy Ira don't you?'

If this possibility has been germinating in her mind also, Jess is not quite ready to acknowledge it. She shakes her head. 'I don't think Ken would be up for that. Anyway, I can't imagine Ira would be interested in someone like me.'

'Why on earth would you say that? Ira thinks you're beautiful; believe me he'd love to go to bed with you. As for Ken, as long as you're comfortable with the idea, you can leave him to me. So, what do you think?'

'Well I guess at least I'd be getting something out of it, which is definitely better than how things are now.'

You might think, in view of her earlier speculation about the relationship between her husband and her friend, that the significance of Deborah's confidence in her ability to influence Ken would not be lost on her; but Jessie is not one to dwell on things; she glances skywards; 'It's looking good,' she says, 'come on let's head off down to the beach.'

********************

He would never forget the first time he saw her. She was walking with a friend past Morgan's café, pushing her baby daughter in one of those Victorian style prams which were fashionable back then, and the look of her set his heart racing. He saw Morgan do a double take and heard him ask: 'Who is that beautiful ethnic-looking woman?

But it was not until he met her face to face, that he knew he was fucked. He had gone around to call on her husband but it was Jess who answered the door. And she was stunning! For what seemed a very long moment he stood there speechless, as if someone had punched the air out of him.

She was wearing a bikini so small she might just as well have been naked; and he wondered how, having recently given birth, she could have a belly so flat; and breasts that were so shapely and set so high on her slender torso; and each breast a perfect handful.

She had an air about her of sun-struck indolence which might, he thought, have been post-coital languor, and he felt a sharp pang of jealousy -- Deb would never have gone about the house like that for fear he'd come on to her. Thinking about it afterwards, he was struck by how unselfconscious she seemed -- not flaunting her body, just very comfortable in it.

Shortly after, Ken came to the door. He was naked to the waist and carrying a guitar. To Ira's jealous eyes he looked smug and satisfied as if he'd just had sex. Swallowing that bitter pill and remembering what he'd come for Ira asked: 'Can you play that thing?'

Oh, but she was beautiful! How he longed to hold her in his arms! That he would, as he then thought, never do so, seemed nothing less than an intolerable injustice. He left their house feeling desolate.

********************

As the plane banked, its dipping wing revealed the island, emerald green and diminutive against the blue immensity of the Pacific. Whenever Ira flies in he's reminded of that first sighting and the queasy mixture of exhilaration and apprehension he'd felt as he pondered what lay ahead of them on this speck in the ocean, at once beautiful and alien; wondering if Debbie felt it too.

Eight years have passed since then and now, coming back after five weeks abroad, he is acutely aware that his sense of alienation has not diminished. Although he has come home he does not feel at home. He knows that this time it's not a matter of topography or location; it's an internal disturbance; a consequence of the unhappy state of his relationship with Deb. For a number of years now he had felt that their relationship was withering through lack of sustenance, and believing that they urgently needed time alone with each other, he'd begged her to take this trip with him. And although he knew in his heart that her decision to put the children first and stay behind was the right one, he had not been able to shake off his feelings of anger and resentment towards her for doing so.

Had their marriage been doomed from the start he wondered. Their only experience of sexual intercourse had been with each other. Their courtship had been long, and sexually intense. Perhaps their relationship had already run out of steam by the time they finally got around to tying the knot.

But they had kept on making love, right up to the ninth month of her first pregnancy so maybe it was only after the birth of their children -- a boy and, at two-year intervals, two little girls -- that things began to go sour. After each birth, Ira's loving feelings for his wife had intensified, and it would be years before it occurred to him that it had not been the same for her. Years later she acknowledged that she had been depressed during those early years of marriage and, thinking about it, he realized that even back then he'd had a nagging sense of something being wrong. When their son was five and their daughter two, they took the children on an ocean cruise and didn't make love -- not once. This saddened Ira though he didn't speak about it. True, they were sharing a cabin with the children, but he could not help but feel that had there been enough enthusiasm on Debbie's part, they might have found an opportunity for at least one discreet fuck.

But whatever resentment Ira felt about the quality of their sex lives, he managed to bury, and so the first serious rift in their relationship did not occur until some years later -- after he made the fatal mistake of telling Debbie about Pearl.

PEARL

She offered up her young body without let or hindrance. While readily accommodating herself to whatever he required of her, she never sought to appear sexually adventurous in her own right. Nor would Ira have expected it -- a performance was the very last thing he wanted from her. In fact, her reticence aroused him; and -- since he hoped to win from her more than a semblance of ardor -- served his purpose perfectly well. And while he guessed that Pearl's reticence was initially strategic -- a necessary professional stance while the parameters of their relationship were still being negotiated -- he thought he detected (apart from relief that little more was required of her than acceptance of his invariably tender ministrations) an element of professional, as well as personal satisfaction in her ability to contribute to their attainment of mutual pleasure by such passive means. Blithely, she gave him her body. Patiently, she permitted him to arrange it into whatever forms and postures were pleasing to him. and afforded ready access to what was -- as he joyfully discovered -- a far from passive cunt. And he would tell her she was beautiful; but she would always deny it.