Cold Pt 02 Helena

Cold, Part Two: Helena

A story in two parts by Henry Jekyll

A version of this story was first posted at a discussion site leading to substantial rewriting and editing. I'm grateful to the editors for their help, but it frankly goes best in Literotica's "Loving Wives" category. I will warn the reader that it is neither a "RAAC" nor a "BTB" story.

There is no actual sex in this part.

I appreciate comments and stand by my policy of accepting all of them, even those insulting ones usually posted anonymously. If you post a comment from a Literotica account, I will try to reply directly.

Copyright, 2024, by H. Jekyll. I reserve all rights.

*****

They were gathered in the lounge with their luggage, watching Ushuaia appear the way seaside towns do at high latitudes, through a mist. They were waiting to disembark when Marjorie came to him.

"You told us Helena was a tall, long-haired blonde, right? You know, a shiksa goddess? Well, not to worry you, but why don't you take a peek down at the dock? Just to be sure? Off to the left, standing by herself."

It had rained on and off and there were puddles. Helena was standing right beside one, so there were two of her, the woman and her reflection.

Lynn blew a low whistle. "I could never compete with that. It's no wonder the artiste went for her. A shiksa goddess and a total slut, one who's come for you." She took a breath. "What are you going to do? And what exactly is a shiksa goddess? Is it Hindu?"

"I guess..." There was the memory of how she left him, all the details. "I guess I don't know. I guess I have to think about it."

*****

Did she come to rub my face in it?

Helena hadn't moved though Charles was almost the last one off and everyone else who had waited for passengers was gone. Sara had hugged him and held him like she had in his cabin, and she had kissed him. "If it doesn't work out between you and..."

"The harpy."

"If it doesn't work out, let me know. Maybe I could visit. If you'd like a visitor."

"Thank you, Sara." He'd kissed her back.

"And I wouldn't be so skittish."

"Promises, promises." They'd kissed again. "I will keep in touch." She'd walked away to join her friends, holding Charles' fingers until the last possible moment.

*****

Charles took a breath and held it, then walked almost directly toward Helena. He didn't have much choice really. The walkway wasn't wide, and he had to navigate the puddles. She decided the matter by stepping in front of him.

He was planning to push her aside. Helena didn't seem prepared for a push. She stood oh-so-still, with her arms at her sides, but something was wrong because her head was lowered and she was looking at him from under her lashes, looking beautiful and--sad. No tears, but sadness.

My shiksa goddess. My harpy. My what? Why be sad? Why aren't you triumphant? You won. You cuckolded your husband right firmly.

Beyond her he could see his Canadian spirits, looking back while they waited for their shuttle. Lynn had promised they wouldn't give Helena death stares and even now they merely gazed. He walked up until he was almost touching her, readying himself.

"Get out of my way."

"Please Charlie. I'm so sorry, and I love..."

"Get out of my way."

He didn't push her. He started around her, but she stepped back and slid over until she was right in front of him again, moving like a knight to block him. "Don't! Just let me..."

This time some siren interrupted her. Charles tried to go around her again and she countered again.

"Get out of my way!"

"No! We need to talk!" and he slapped her.

'We need to talk'? Not again. He'd slapped Helena hard. She jerked both hands to her cheek and gasped and hunched over, and Charles began around her again, slogging right through a puddle. That didn't work either. He hadn't taken more than three or four steps before she hurried past him, holding her cheek the whole way, and stood in front of him again. Before she could say anything, he raised his arm. "I'll slap you again!"

My bitchwife. Helena, walking away. Helena looking so damned proud of herself.

Maybe that Helena but not this one. She didn't look at all proud. This Helena dropped both arms to her sides and stood straight and--again--so still and so sad, waiting for it, wincing in anticipation, the red handprint marking the target, until Charles finally said, "Shit!" He didn't say anything else but stared at her and realized he wouldn't slap her again. "Did you enjoy your week of fucking your Jules? Don't give me the glorious details."

"It wasn't a week. I'm sorry, Charlie. I'm sorry. I left. It was three days." Now her eyes

were

wet.

He made a look of faux sadness. He was expecting shamelessness.

"He wore you out that fast? Or did you wear him out?"

"No one wore anyone out. I wanted to come home to you."

*****

The rain had stopped, and a little sunshine pierced the mist here and there. A breeze had risen, a quiet, chill little thing, nothing more than a zephyr. It wouldn't mask the conversation. Indeed, the entire world seemed to have gone still to listen in.

"Oh? Because?"

"Because I love you, and I was afraid for you." She kept wiping her eyes.

For that you tracked me down and flew, God, how far? Eighty-five hundred miles! To be here when my ship landed.

"And that was it? Well, you can see I'm fine, so go home."

"And I was ashamed of myself." She touched the red place on her cheek.

"Ashamed? It's a tad late for that, sweetheart. You toyed with me. You fucking toyed with me!" He mimicked her: "'Stay busy while I'm gone.' Remember that? So now you're suddenly ashamed?"

He'd expected her to be brazen, the way she'd been when she'd left him. He didn't expect contrition. What would she do, cry? Probably. Say she loved him? Certainly. There were other tropes. Maybe she'd say she wanted to make it up to him. But being ashamed? He didn't know what to make of that.

The Orlova's horn blew so loudly that they could feel the vibration, and no one could hear anything anyone said. A low cloud rolled down from the hills and brought a new shower that ended as quickly as it had begun. When Helena turned her head toward the horn, Charles tried to get past her again, and this time she caught the handle of his suitcase. He yanked on it, and she slipped on the wet walk and fell to her knees, but she wouldn't let go.

When he could understand her, Helena was saying, "Don't go. Please! Don't leave. I can't stand myself. Please. I'm sorry. And I lo..." and he cut in again.

"Don't you dare say that! Don't tell me how much you love me. Never again. And don't tell me how sorry you are. What you can do is tell me what happened. Tell it straight."

She tried.

"It was my chance." She gulped. "I'm sorry." He raised a hand. Not the s-word. Then, "Your stupid wife. Your idiot wife." She stopped again. "Your bloody imbecile of a wife!" She stopped yet again and tried to pull herself a little higher. Her pants knee was torn.

What was this? He lowered his voice. "Are you just going to keep insulting yourself?"

Helena looked up at him, just a glance, before staring into a puddle.

"Your needy wife. That was me. Jules was dangerous and I was so... needy." Jules. Dear Lord! He'd materialized from an exotic world, the realm of artists and intellectuals and poets. "I saw his people all over. I sold art to them, but I wasn't one of them."

Jules had taken her to lunch with some of them. Several lunches. God, she hated the end of lunch, though it wasn't at lunch that desire took her. No, at lunch it just whispered to her and caressed her and got her to accept the hook. When she had been properly prepared, desire deepened. Full fathom five, her Jules did lie, and she was reeled down to his glistening empire, so different from her ordinary, spare, dry world. Maybe she and Charles had touched their toes into it, nothing more. Jesus God! Jules was her chance. "That's what I felt." Have a thing with an important artist. Swim in that world.

Helena stopped yet again. She didn't know how to tell Charles all that, but she wanted him to understand, so it all came out, some in hesitations, some in torrents. Let him understand the whole story. She told him and tried not to cry too much and tried not to say she was sorry and kept having to stop herself from telling Charles she loved him.

"Jules came on to me and I wanted it." He would be her guide. 'Go ask anyone,' he'd said, and

everyone

had nodded, her half-dozen arts friends. '

Everyone

has these affairs,' they'd assured her. They were all superior and no one got hurt. "I'd get to share... I don't know. Share the life. That's what I thought!"

"So, you were going to sleep your way in?"

That can't be it.

He didn't think she'd answer, but he was wrong again.

"Yes." She wiped her eyes again while Charles waited. She'd sold her glasswork at regional arts fairs. She'd held her own on the university debate team. She'd organized important auctions at the studio.

How perfectly mediocre,

she thought. She waved a hand, dismissively. "What I can offer is my body. And the prospect became so exciting. And with someone of Jules' stature." She looked like she wanted to say more but she didn't.

It began sprinkling again. There was another horn, more like a whistle this time, a distant one, and now Charles noticed other sounds, winches screeching on the loading docks, trucks, telehandlers, and men's voices, all muted by the mist. He noticed them because Helena wasn't saying anything. None of it was loud enough to block her if she'd said anything at all, but she didn't. She'd seemed like a Hollywood gold digger, but now she let go of his suitcase and simply knelt and cried.

She broke down, just like... that? I don't understand.

He whispered, "Oh Jesus," and touched Helena's head. If anyone had noticed, they might have thought he was granting her absolution. "Share the life?" he asked. He wasn't sure she heard him, but she looked up. He examined his hand, the one he'd touched her with.

You thought that?

He shook his head, looked around, then shook it again.

My poor Helena. My poor... something. My beloved? She was my beloved.

Charles forced himself not to cry. It was something he hadn't shared with Sara, the crying, how after Helena had left, he'd begun crying and had cried all the way home, fits of it interspersed with bizarre fantasies of killing them both. At home he'd sniveled and stopped and sniveled some more. He'd lain on their bed and grabbed her pillow. He could smell Helena on it, her face cream, her shampoo, her cologne. Essence of Helena. He'd thrown the pillow across the room, but when enough time had passed, he'd picked it up and smelled her some more.

That's how he'd spent his first evening alone, until he'd decided to cope in a more manly fashion: stop crying and get drunk and disappear. Very manly. By morning a drunken Charles had worked out the elements of a plan, and he hadn't cried since.

*****

He should get her out of the damp. He helped her stand. "Come on."

Helena rose but she didn't move. She stood with head hanging, arms dangling, done with the sobbing but sniffling, empty. Charles could have left her standing like a scarecrow. He kept thinking,

She broke just like that.

"Come on." He took her arm.

She leaned against him and swayed as they walked.

"Have you eaten anything?" She shook her head, a tiny shake.

"Just some pretzels."

"Do you have a room?"

"No. When I finally found... your ship... I had to hurry... to be here when you landed. Only one flight would work." She was panting, and fading, and some things were making sense.

"Sit down." He wiped the water off a bench. "Catch your breath. Okay. What about sleep?"

The cruise companies didn't want to release passenger information, but Helena had finally tracked down Charles' ship. She read and re-read his lone email.

What have I done?

Could she meet the ship? What flights might work? Hurry! She'd been so distracted that she'd bought a one-way ticket, then had taken a rushed cab ride to Heathrow and had checked her luggage and run to catch the Emirates overnight flight to Dubai. It was that or nothing. There she'd caught her connection and had a center seat for the fifteen-hour flight to Rio. She'd used the restroom three times to sob without drawing attention to herself, one time staying long enough that a flight attendant had knocked for an old woman who'd been taken short. She couldn't eat the airplane meal.

What have I done?

The question echoed through the entire flight and the ninety-minute stopover in Rio, before the segment to Buenos Aires, but there was no answer.

What have I done?

There was a full, ten-hour layover before the Argentine Airlines flight to Ushuaia. She'd nodded off in a stiff, plastic chair and dreamt of Charles. That was before a further three-hour delay.

I'll miss his ship! I'll miss him!

Finally at Ushuaia: where was her luggage? It had to be there, and finally it was. She'd stuffed it into a locker and caught a cab to the docks.

What have I done? What have I done? What have I done?

She had hurried to be on time, but the Orlova was itself delayed, so she'd had nothing to do but stand in the off-and-on rain and wait, and hate herself, and ultimately lean against a chain-link fence because she was so tired. When the Orlova had finally docked, everyone in the world except Charles had walked past her.

Do I have the wrong ship?

Or had something terrible happened to him? Or had she simply missed him?

I can't do anything right!

The crowd had dispersed, so there were just the working men with their equipment and the sometime rain, before: Charles.

"I haven't had much sleep."

When they stood, Helena swayed again, and Charles held her up. She circled him with her arms and laid her head on his shoulder and breathed. He wondered for a moment if she were faking it, but she couldn't even stand straight.

*****

Helena washed her face and dried off as best she could in the cafeteria women's room, then came back to the table. Charles had hot tea for her and a scone, and he was on his cell. She took a sip of tea. She wouldn't look him in the face.

"Eat a little."

"I can't." But she took a bite of scone.

"The hotels are mostly booked this weekend, so you'll have to stay in my room. I got you onto my flights home."

She looked like she was going to cry again.

"Thank you, Charlie. Thank..."

"Stop. Just stop. It's not permanent." Helena's chin quivered and became a wrinkled mess, but she didn't cry. He made her take another bite of scone, and his mind wandered while she ate. Just how good a mesmerizer was Jules?

"Was that all it took? Really? Just a 'come hither'?"

"I was so easy. A couple of lunches and a come-on."

"At our dinners. You were already leaning that way. That blouse...."

Helena put her hands over her eyes, leaned far back, moaned, and shook her head. "I didn't think you'd notice. I felt so naughty." Jules had looked at her breasts throughout that first dinner. She could feel him looking at them all evening.

At the end of the evening, Jules and his date had gone to Charles' and Helena's flat for cordials. At the very end, Helena had gone out to the stoop with them, and Jules had kissed her on the cheek. In his beautiful French English, he'd told her how lovely and witty she was. "Any man might convince himself to act with you... improperly. You would, perhaps, be offended?" He'd stood so close that anyone could tell what was happening, and she'd said, "It would depend," at which point he'd kissed her on the mouth and at the same moment had brushed her nipples with the backs of the fingers of both hands, right in front of his date. "Are you offended?" he'd asked, and she'd given him a cold look and replied, "Yes," but she hadn't moved. "Then I apologize for my behavior."

She'd stood on the stoop and watched them walk away. She couldn't catch her breath.

*****

Helena put her face down into her hand again. "You were the problem." How does a doomed person sound? "I couldn't share it... that fantasy... unless I could make you let me go. Yes, I was stupid. And I was wicked. That was my way to do it."

She couldn't go on, but Charles outwaited her, just saying "Have some more scone."

"Jules suggested the lunch talk. He said it was easy." He'd also suggested the fellatio

quid pro quo

. Ultimately husbands accepted the situation when they recognized who their wives were with. So said Jules, who knew everything. She could go back to her Charles afterwards. The promise of an I'm-home-honey blowjob would put it over the top.

"Everyone agreed... everyone I talked with." Her same half-dozen arts friends. "And I made myself believe everything." She inhaled and held the breath in, and Charles waited some more. "None of them suggested I could lose you over it. I grew so terribly excited. I would be the sophisticated mistress, in complete charge, even in charge of you." She started crying for the first time since her collapse.

"Shit." There it was. "Just how many women has he done that with? Maybe all the wives in the 'We Fucked Jules' club could have a get-together." How many indeed? They wouldn't make his biographies, but they could share divorce stories. Maybe they could rent a stadium with the legion of girls who've sucked off rock stars. What difference was there?

Finally, Helena couldn't keep herself from using those terms of contrition. "Can I come back, Charlie? Please let me. I love you and I'm so sorry."

"So you say. Repeating it doesn't make it truer, so don't count on it. You fucked him. You went with him. You played me. Three strikes, you're out. I'm surprised you came all this way."

"I began to regret it before we left. That first day I wished I hadn't gone."

"But... no. You went with him, and you slept with him."

Yes. And she had performed enthusiastically and at length on her back and on her knees; her second session with him; her first time in the magical south of France.

"I did." She took another huge breath. "I wasn't completely sure I would until we went to a dinner that evening." It was in an ornate banquet room, one intended for this or that Louis, or for Napoleon, filled with gilt and polished mahogany and sumptuous mirrors, and it was crowded with superior people: a director; a sculptor; a cabinet minister; an actor. Some were with their wives. A few, like Jules, were with their mistresses.

"And...?"

"Yes, I was thrilled. Me, Helena Thompson with

those

people." She had floated up to Mount Olympus, and, like the gods, almost everyone there cheated with everyone else. The cabinet minister's wife had asked Helena what her husband did and thought it amusing that he was a nonentity at the embassy. "So, yes, I slept with him that night. But afterwards you took over."

Charles raised an eyebrow. Maybe it was the guilt that took her over, knowing who she hoped would be waiting at home, and what she had done. She'd thought of Charles, then had remembered his expression when she told him she was leaving, and then she couldn't think of anything else. "I wanted to leave. In the morning, I tried to call you, but your phone was off. You didn't respond to texts or emails."

"I told you I wouldn't be there."

"I called everyone. No one had seen you. Even the embassy didn't know where you were."

"And yet..." Charles spread his hands like Tevye and blew a loud breath out. "And yet you slept with him again."

"I didn't know how to get out of it!"

"Oh, you could have politely refused."

Instead, she'd had her first experience of silk scarves and a blindfold. And her body had betrayed her by breaking into shuddering orgasms that left her breathless. But even that--even that--as her breathing slowed and Jules caressed her and told her how delightful she was--even that couldn't banish thoughts of Charles.

What if Charlie did that to me?

Where was he? Could he still want her?