Epilogues

Cold, Part 3: Epilogues

By H. Jekyll

*****

I am grateful to stev2244 for a critical reading of an earlier draft of this story.

I recommend reading parts one and two of "Cold" before diving into this. The story's MC, Charles Taylor, has taken an Antarctic cruise to escape his adulterous wife, Helena.

Part One

takes place aboard ship and focuses on Charles' experiences with three Canadian women.

Part Two

takes place in Ushuaia, Argentina, at the end of the cruise, and focuses entirely on Charles' difficult interaction with Helena, who wants to reconcile.

I hadn't intended to write a third part of "Cold," but commenters, including friends, felt it was hanging and wanted closure. After some thought, this is where I decided the story had to go.

I have posted it in Loving Wives. If you believe it should have gone in, say, Romance, I understand. Romance is involved. However, everything that happens is the result of a cruel betrayal.

If you would like the story to go a different direction, you have my blessing to write your own version. Let me know, give me credit, and provide a link to the original story. Don't post at a commercial site unless you, the site's administrator, and I have a legally binding agreement to split revenues. Copyright 2025 by H. Jekyll. All rights reserved.

As always, I accept all comments, including negative ones, even insulting ones often posted by 'anonymous.' If you post a comment under your Literotica account, I will try to reply to you directly.

*****

Prologue: The Present

There are those stories, the ones of adulterous wives. They'll often have an epilogue that wraps things up going forward. This happens to the husband, or ex-husband; maybe that happens to the wife. The story

after

the story. But there are epilogues and epilogues. Life doesn't necessarily get wrapped up neatly. Events often choose themselves, and we may travel paths we wouldn't have predicted.

"I only met Sara once." Helena is speaking to her therapist.

"Charles' second wife?"

"Yes. He'd met her on that cruise, when I... you know. When I was busy blowing up our marriage."

"You want to talk about her? Or her and Charles?" The therapist pours tea for each of them and offers Helena a plate of sweetmeats.

"Yes. Both of them."

"Why

now

? It's been... how long? Nine years? Ten?" She looks at her notes. "It's been five since I've seen you."

"Yes. A decade."

"Something has happened."

Helena is silent for a moment.

"Sara died."

*****

Helena's Epilogue

Everybody hurts sometimes. Everybody cries.

Helena couldn't remember all the lyrics, but she understood the song. Hang on, it says. Hang on to what? Take comfort in your friends. She'd unfriended everyone. And what good are friends when it's darkest late at night, and the darkness never... don't say it. Just don't.

Everybody cries. Take no comfort in the look.

That look.

That look!

The look in Charles' eyes.

Helena had written it all down in her daybook and thought to make it a poem, or a song, but she'd finally let it go. She rediscovered it later.

Part of my apology play

, she thought.

Along with getting down on my knees and begging

. But it was too late in any case, and certainly far too late when she found her old notes.

Once she'd have thought that the worst experience is where you've been blindsided by your love. That crushes you. But no. She reconsidered. You're devastated but one day follows another, and the first step is followed by the second, and so on, and you recover. Eventually you can be happy again. Most people can.

No, it's worse, she reasoned, if you've done the blindsiding and driven away your love. One day follows another, and the steps keep going, but your feet are weighed down by that massive chain, the first step and the next, the next, the next. It is unrelenting, the chain is, and so heavy it makes you want to stop.

*****

Helena had gone to the studio her second day back from Ushuaia.

"How was your week with Jules?" asked Julie, her manager. She'd thought Helena had been in France.

"Charlie left me."

"He what?"

"I lost my husband!"

"I don't understand. Didn't you do those things to him? You know. Suck him sweetly?"

"He left me, Julie!"

"Well, how was your time with Jules? What? Don't look like that! Tell me about it."

Helena quit. She ghosted everyone at the studio and found a therapist.

At the time she hadn't thought it would be long before she saw him.

A few months

, she'd thought,

and we'll be back together

. She was single-minded in her pursuit. "If you can become a decent human being," Charles had said, "maybe, we can talk."

She dutifully obeyed his order not to contact him, and to get professional help. She couldn't afford the city of London and so moved to Croydon. It was from there that she sent Charles a lone text message, so he'd know how to get in touch if he had to -- or if he changed his mind. He replied with his new address, nothing more.

"What do you want out of this?" her therapist asked at their first meeting.

"I want to learn to be a better person. I want my husband to take me back."

She worked at it intensely. She met with the therapist twice per week and had assignments. She did all of them. She made lists of important life events that might help explain how she could have done what she did. She produced a detailed timeline of her relationship with Charles and another one of the period in which Jules had seduced her.

Ah, Jules, her genie of the arts, who would take her there -- where? -- in exchange for her body. Jules would take her off topic while she was creating her timeline. Or memories of him would. Remember. That was the assignment. Remember what? Remember that dinner when she'd coyly displayed her nipples through her blouse. She'd gotten so charged up that she'd half-raped Charles afterwards, thinking about Jules the entire time.

Memories of what destroyed her marriage kept butting in, those wonderful, destructive things. It was toward the end of her time with Jules, when her guilt was already consuming her, that she'd let him tie her and blindfold her and give her such sweet torment that it sweetly pushed Charles away. It pushed everything away.

Don't think of that! Think of Charlie, of lovemaking with Charlie, of everything about Charlie. We were so happy before Jules and the arts ruined us. Before I ruined us.

Helena talked with other people who knew her well, about how they understood her personality. She avoided Jules completely --

Don't think of him! Stop thinking of him!

-- and worked to cultivate new friends. She would sit at home in the evening, going through her photos and Charles' hand-written love letters.

*****

A few weeks on, a friend told Helena about a social media post of Charles confronting Jules. A video montage. Jules was dining in some restaurant in Paris, with an entourage. Of

course

there was an entourage. A man walked up to him and said, "Hello Jules." Jules looked up and maybe he hesitated. Maybe not. There were some quick edits to the video, and you couldn't be sure. He started to rise, to offer his hand. "Hello, Charlie."

Charles hit him in the face, completely sucker-punched him, knocked him over his chair and onto his back on the floor, then stood over him as people screamed. One of Jules' legs was draped across the overturned chair. "You're finished with my wife, Jules," Charles said, "but I'm not done with you." Someone tried to drag Charles away, but he shrugged the person off. "Keep looking over your shoulder. You won't know when or where, but I'll be there, me or some other husband.

Ta vie va se transformer en merde

." Parts of it were caught on three different cell phones, and someone had spliced everything together.

A TikTok account reported that Jules had a broken jaw and had lost two teeth. His Web site denied it, but he'd hired bodyguards. That much was certain. All Helena could think, though, was

You called me your wife!

*****

She thought she was making progress, but in her fourth week her therapist asked her point blank, "Is it your hope that as an end result of our sessions, you will be able to win Charles back?"

Yes, it was! But the therapist pulled that rug out from under her.

"You face two problems. First, if you are successful here, it does

not

mean that he will take that path. It may be too late for that. Forgiveness is Charles' to give or withhold."

He has to. He has to!

"The second is a greater problem." The therapist took a sip of tea while Helena waited. When she spoke, it was coldly. "You are not close to reaching the goal of therapy. You're seeking insight under false pretenses, to look acceptable to him,

rather

than to become a more thoughtful and empathetic person. You're destined to fail."

Helena went home and cried away the rest of the day, lying on her bed, prostrate, unable to do the slightest thing.

I'm just a self-centered bitch!

Her therapy was set back weeks. Weeks became months. One month dragging the chain followed another. What was Charles doing?

She went to her old church, her parents' church, the one she had abandoned long ago. She thought she might find -- something. It was the Church of England, but was it the Church of Helena? There she stumbled onto a twelve-step group that focused on infidelities. They talked about 'sex addiction.' Perhaps God would help, however she envisioned Him, the way He was supposed to help alcoholics. See seemed helpless on her own.

It was still longer before her therapist suggested she ask Charles to accompany her to a session.

But.

When he answered the door, a woman was with him.

"Hello, Helena. This is my friend Sara. Sara, this is Helena." Sara was silent, but she looked like she wanted to attack Helena. Worse, Helena could tell they were a couple. She couldn't say anything. "I take it you're here because you got the application?" asked Charles. For the divorce. There was little other conversation, nothing really. Helena left without asking about the therapy session. She went home to mope away the rest of the day and found the divorce application in the post.

*****

She couldn't bring herself to contest the divorce. Between the therapist and the church group, she'd made enough progress to truly hate herself, so she had to let him go. He'd started the legal process in May, and by late autumn it was done.

Sometime later, a mutual acquaintance told her that Charles and Sara had married. There was also a romantic story about how the couple had met her, which Helena both wanted and didn't want to hear.

Oh, my Charlie! At least you're free of me.

She'd stood to tell her twelve-step group, "My ex-husband remarried. I'm trying to let it go. I think I'm happy for him, but it's been a hard week." Her mentor and two other women from the group took her out to dinner and let her cry and tell her story once again and let her know that things would get better.

She didn't believe them. "I had hoped, as a dream, my wildest dream, that he'd ultimately take me back."

Her mentor urged her to see him, to let him know she was letting go and wished them well. She tried but couldn't do it, so she sent a card. She never heard back.

*****

Where does life go when it goes on? Helena had a new life, a little one. She'd opened a tiny shop, and there were her therapist and her church group. She sold jewelry and other items, much of which she crafted. One weekend she was selling jewelry from a cart at Portobello Road Market, and she saw Charles and Sara. Charles was pushing a pram. Helena hid behind a delivery van. She leaned against it and covered her eyes and tried to catch her breath. It was a long time before she could bring herself to see if they were gone, and she stayed away from Portobello Road for the next month.

For the longest time Helena didn't date. She finally grew so lonely that she did see some men, and she had sex off and on, which was pleasant enough, but guilt kept her from being enthusiastic. Mostly she sucked cocks, because she didn't have to pretend to come, and the men liked it. She developed a sore throat, which turned out to be chlamydia and led to a week on doxycycline, after which she put dating on pause.

It was at the Portobello Road Market that Helena met a man; a customer whose date loved a brooch Helena had made. His name, too, was Charles, Charles Stuart of all things, and he came back the next week by himself. He wanted to talk and, yes, to ask her out. They were soon seeing each other. She always called him Charles, never 'Charlie,' and thought of him as Charles the Second, her own Restoration King. She told him early on how she'd destroyed her marriage, because she wouldn't let secrets come between them, and he fell for her. She loved him and was proud to have found a man like that. They became exclusive. He wanted a marriage and children, and at some point they decided to make a life together, and she moved in with him. Afterwards, she became brave enough to visit Charles and Sara, to tell them she had found someone. To clear the air. To make peace. Maybe to prove to herself that she

could

talk with them.

When she did, she found they had moved back to America.

Her new Charles comforted her that night, and they made their own peace. "It's okay, Helana. It's okay." He'd had her spread naked across the bed and massaged her, her arms, legs, scalp, body. Her breasts, her mound, everywhere. He didn't try for sex. He wanted to comfort her. He caressed her until she relaxed. Until she let go. Then, she asked him to come inside her, and it was wonderful.

Still, Charles Stuart was 35 and ready to begin a family and... Helena couldn't make that commitment. She discussed it with her therapist. She brought it to her twelve-step group. She and Charles discussed it, and then they fought over it. It became their major point of contention. They tried to find a solution, counseling, everything. She kept asking for more time.

They tried for three years before Charles Stuart finally left her.

*****

Charles' Epilogue

Charles didn't have a plan. He had to make small talk with Helena until they boarded their jet in Ushuaia, then again in Buenos Aires, while they shuttled between its airports, and finally in Amsterdam, but at least her seats weren't near his on any leg. He sat quietly and stared at the no-smoking signs and thought about her and downed whiskey drinks. He thought about Sara and wished he'd had more time with her. Maybe had sex. Maybe just walked the decks. Anything. He and Helena shared a cab in London. He looked out the window all the way to the flat. They were both wasted. He had the driver wait while he helped get her things up the stairs, then he went to a hotel and collapsed.

He didn't have a plan in London, either.

Moving was easy. There was a tiny efficiency not so far from his job, a four-floor walk-up with a kitchenette, a bed, and a bath with lukewarm water. It had wi-fi, which was enough.

Moving on was impossible. Charles envisioned Helena returning and their resuming their love. She'd be at his door, and they'd hug. Or he'd physically hurt her. That was better. Mortify her. Ruin her life. Yes! Or he would save her, rescue her, bring her home. Everything collided, at work, at meals, at home, in bed. There were no other women. There were no women at all. Sometimes he heard the couple next door going at it. She was very loud, and sometimes their headboard thumped against the wall, but it seemed only vaguely interesting.

Charles spent his days working at the Embassy, mostly delivering messages, and his evenings at little restaurants or in his rooms. People at the embassy--those who'd met Helena--were aghast at the story, and horrified, and titillated. He emailed the three spirits to tell them the developments in his marriage, working to be light-hearted about it all. They all responded appropriately enough, but the shipboard magic was gone. Only Sara wrote back more than once.

Things changed one Saturday morning when Charles answered a knock. He didn't get visitors, and thought it could possibly be Helena, but it was Sara.

"Hi, Charlie. I guess I should have called before I came." She wouldn't look him in the eyes. It wasn't only that her eyes were downcast, but that she looked chagrinned, pleased, and afraid. She was going to say something else, to explain herself, but that was as far as she got before he grabbed her and started kissing her.

*****

Sara wasn't skittish, but she was. They held each other and tried to talk, but somehow they were on the bed, kissing and hugging, clothed even. When Charles began unbuttoning Sara's blouse, she grabbed his hand.

"No, Charlie." He pulled back. "I don't know."

"What?"

"You're still married."

"Okay."

"Are you certain you're going to divorce her?"

Whoa Nellie,

Charles thought,

What is it? What does Sara want?

"I'm pretty sure."

"I don't know that we should." He sat back. "If you're married."

He shook his head, like he was trying to clear it.

"On the ship," he said. "You would have then."

"I know. I know. But you made the decision to stop. You decided for us, and you made the right decision."

"I didn't stop with Lynn and Marjorie. I'm not sure I understand."

Then Sara sat up, too, and took his hand. "It was... that was between you and them. This is between you and me. It's different."

"How is it different?"

"It's different because... no. Just believe me."

"Sara?"

"No. Trust me. It's different."

"Sara. Tell me."

"It's different because I don't want to ruin everything with you. Please Charlie!"

She'd come to him, all the way from Saskatchewan, on a whim. A hunch about him. He understood she had fallen for him, and that she was hopeful, but she didn't want them to make love, at least not yet. He didn't understand that.

They sat quietly, quietly enough that they could hear someone moving around next door. Charles finally said, "So, if I'd asked on the ship..."

"I'd have said 'yes.' You know that."

He had to know. "And if I ask you now...?"

"The answer will be 'yes.' Wholeheartedly yes. But I'm hoping you won't ask."

More silence.

"Well, can I kiss you?"

"Oh, yes!" She took his face in her hands, and they kissed, lips and tongues, until he extracted himself and made a face, a kind of smirk.

"Can I feel you up?"

"That... that would be okay."

And he did.

*****

The picture: Sara's blouse unbuttoned. Charles' hands sliding under her bra, caressing her breasts, playing with her nipples while he kissed her. He reached behind her and unfastened her bra and pulled it off, far enough off that he could lick and kiss and nibble her, then suck, suck hard, one side, the other, back and forth.

That could have gone on a while, but something else happened. Sara's breathing changed. It had been rich and sonorous, but it grew faster and deeper.

"No. Don't." He was sucking a nipple. "No. Oh God, Charlie. Stop. No! Don't stop!" He stopped only for a second, to look in Sara's eyes, then he went back to her left nipple, sucking it hard and nipping it.

Her breathing grew deeper and even faster. She put both hands on his head and pulled him in tightly. "Don't stop!" Then she was pushing her breast up against his mouth and gasping "Oh God! Oh!" She couldn't stop. She was arching and writhing and crying out and pulling him in so hard that his mouth was filled with breast. "Oh! Oh!" Over and over.

She finally pushed him away, breathing hard. When she spoke, it was in the middle of gasps, "Take your pants off. Take them off," while she pushed her pants and panties down as far as she could reach.