Please note. This is a story. I made it up. It's not a confession. Worrying about how the central character's relationship will develop might be fun, but that would then be your story. If the notion of infidelity offends you, now would be a time to stop reading.
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Saturday morning. I woke gradually, grateful that I could linger under the covers without the urgent cry of the alarm clock calling me to action. My husband, Sam, would not be back for another couple of days so I was not even being importuned to get up and make a cup of tea. Of course, the bed felt very empty without him, but I can't complain. His willingness to take on long distance haulage on a fairly regular basis has paid well over the last few years. Between that and my job in the school office we can afford a nice home, holidays abroad and other luxuries. We are comfortable and we are secure.
At last I pushed back the covers, got up and walked through to the bathroom for my shower. I've got used to walking around the house naked in the morning, while the curtains are still drawn, since my son, Steven, moved out about a year ago. Still, there is a part of me that listens for him moving and still I sometimes expect to hear him. I got into the shower and relaxed as the warm water tumbled on my shoulder length, brown hair and ran in soft rivulets down my skin; enjoyed the familiar routine of soaping my body and smoothly stroking it with my hands, running them through my hair as the water rinsed me down.
After towelling myself down I returned to our bedroom. Standing in front of the full-length mirror on the wardrobe door, I looked myself over. When I turned forty I decided I ought to at least try to keep in some kind of trim. For the last three years I have been reasonably successful. My stomach isn't, perhaps, as flat as it was twenty years ago, but I have kept the weight off pretty well. My breasts are still full and firmer than I expected them to be by this age and have dark brown aureoles. My hips look a little broader than they did and my thighs show some cellulite, but my skin, on the whole, is still smooth and a pleasingly tan colour that sets off my dark brown eyes. My arse.... well let's just say that sometimes I'm glad it's where I can't see it.
Sam used to compliment me on my arse, I thought as I swayed slightly, watching my movements in the mirror and smiling coquettishly at my reflection. Every night, it seemed in those days, he would wrap his arms around me and cup my breasts, pressing his bulge against my bottom. I would feel him harden in the warmth of my cleft and his hand would move to my groin. It happens so rarely these days - problem with him travelling so much. Among other things.
On a whim I lay down on our bed, my legs spread. One hand on my left tit, pinching my nipple, the other stroking my stomach softly, moaning softly I closed my eyes and conjured my current favourite fantasy involving a certain young PE teacher and the stationery cupboard at work. Imagining him kneeling in front of me, raising my skirt and pulling down my knickers, my hand strayed South to my crotch to massage my pubic mound, slipping a finger between my now-moistening folds as I pictured him bringing his tongue to bear on my mature married pussy.
My finger moving inside me now, I watched his thick, hard cock and my fingers wrapping around it, stroking it and running my thumb over its engorged crown as I listened to his short gasps. My breathing coming faster and waves of pleasure flowing from my pussy, I repositioned myself in my imagination, bending over the storage racks full of paper, pens and notebooks and with my legs astride as he stood behind me, gave my arse a playful slap and teased the head of his generous manhood along and between my lips before finding my opening and entering me. My hand moved faster and more urgently, running my fingertip over that specially sensitive place inside as the heel of my palm ground against my clitoris...faster...faster. In my mind his taut young arse was dimpling as he thrust deep inside me over and over....faster....faster. Sensations becoming more and more intense...my legs starting to tremble... biting my lip as I came closer to the edge...
Then my phone rang. "Fuck!"
I considered leaving it unanswered but a glance at the screen told me that it was Steven calling and my maternal worry circuits kicked in. Taking a few seconds to collect myself and to allow my breathing to return to normal I clicked the button to accept the call and said, "Hello, Darling. I thought you were in Croatia. This calls going to cost you a fortune."
"I'll be quick," he replied. "I need your help. Could you do something for me?" Steven has been able to wrap me around his little finger since he could barely talk, but he's smart enough to know that asking for a favour works better when I hear his voice, rather than sending a text."
"What kind of favour?" I asked.
"I forgot to give Zac my share of the rent before I came away and it's due on Monday and there's no way I can get it to him from here. Could you pay him and I'll pay you back when I get home?"
"No problem," I said. "Text me Zac's number and how much you owe him. And have a great time tonight. Bye love!" A few moments later my phone pinged and displayed a text showing Zac's phone number and '£250 x'. I had only met Zac once - a well-mannered young black guy was about all I recalled of the meeting. He had been Steven's flat mate for only a couple of months. Steven's previous flatmate, Colin, had moved out to live with his fiancée for the weeks before their wedding. It was Colin's stag party that had taken Steven and a few other mates to Croatia for the weekend.
I got up and crossed to the chest of drawers from which I plucked the first bra and pair of knickers that came to hand: both black silk. Call it foolish vanity in a woman of my age if you like, but I like a bra that pushes my breasts upward and together to produce a decent cleavage. And who doesn't like silk on their sensitive bits? Taking a quick peek through the curtains I decided that it looked like it would be a warm Summer day, so I selected a loose, low-cut scarlet dress of light cotton and left the tights in the drawer.
Once I had dressed I phoned Zac. It took a fair number of rings before he answered. 'Hi. Zac. Who's this?" he asked, his voice suggesting that he had just woken up.
"Hello. This is Kelly Field - Steven's Mum" I replied.
"Oh. Hi."
"Steven says the rent is due on Monday and he wants be to bring his share round," I reported briefly.
"Yeah. Sure. Give me an hour" Zac answered dopily.
He rang off and I went to my shoe cupboard. I have way too many shoes - most of which I never wear. I picked out a pair of black slingback high heels that I hadn't worn for years but which I thought would be cool and airy if the day turned out to be as hot as it promised. Putting them on, I picked up my phone again and called for a taxi to take me into the town centre. Then, sitting at the dressing table, I put on my make-up. At my age I don't venture out of the house without at least foundation, eye-shadow, blusher, mascara and lipstick. Fortunately years of practice mean that it takes just a few minutes and, by the time I heard the taxi driver sounding his horn outside, I was ready. I grabbed my handbag and headed out.
The taxi dropped me near the bank and I drew the required sum from the ATM before stuffing it into my purse. The day was even warmer even than I had expected and I found myself in a really good mood, as bubbly and carefree as I like to fancy I was in my teenage years. Even the pinching of my shoes couldn't spoil the day. Thinking I had twenty minutes or so to spare I popped into the department store across the street from the bank and tried on a couple of perfumes. One, a deep musky scent with overtones of pinewood, was one I particularly like and I decided that Sam was going to surprise me with it for my birthday.
I got in a taxi at the rank at the back of the shopping centre out to Steven's flat, which is in a slightly grubby area. All red and yellow brick with a patina of Victorian and pre-smog soot that had never been scoured away because this was a part of the city where tourists and wealthy homeseekers never came. I walked up the three-step path from the gate to the front door and pressed the button for Flat 3A on the buzzer system. Then I waited. And I waited a little longer. I pressed the button again. And I waited. At last I heard Zac's voice, "Yeah? This is Flat 3A. Who is it?"
"Zac?" I replied. "It's Mrs Field. I called earlier."
There was an almost inaudible "Shit!", then I heard the sound of the door lock opening and he said, "Come on up." I opened the door and went inside. My shoes becoming a little sore now, I climbed the four flights of stairs in the dingy greyness of the the stairwell until I came to a landing with two doors marked '3A' and '3B' . I knocked at the door of Steven's flat and waited. After a few moments I heard the sound of movement inside and of the Yale lock turning.
"Sorry," Zac said as he opened the door. "I got... distracted, then I kind of nodded off and went back to sleep," he said as he ran his hand over his closely cropped black hair. "Come in." He opened the door wide and I stepped into the flat. It's a fairly typical of the area - a couple of bedrooms, an open kitchen/lounge area and a bathroom. It's also fairly typical of flats occupied by young men: there were unwashed plates on the table and that low pungent odour of sweat and pizza.
"Sit down, I'll make you some tea." Zac said as he closed the door and gestured toward a coffee table and a settee. As I sat and watched him as he went to the kitchen area to put the kettle on I realised just how deeply black his skin was. The highlights shone almost blue instead of dark brown on his high cheekbones and forehead. He was wearing what he had evidently had to hand when I had rung the doorbell - a black t-shirt and loose grey sweat pants. The t-shirt was tight over his well-formed chest and muscular upper arms. Clearly he spent some time working the weights in the gym. What caught my eye, though, lay below his waist. Clearly he was wearing nothing beneath his pants because, every so often, the material would fold in such a way as to delineate a fair representation of what lay beneath and, from what I could see, it was pretty impressive.
Feeling my cheeks flushing a little I lurched into small-talk. "So, am I right in thinking that you didn't know Steven before you moved in here?"
"No," he replied as the kettle came to the boil and Zac poured boiling water onto teabags in two mugs. "It was a friend of Colin who knew that I was looking for a place. He told me Colin was moving out and put me in touch. Milk and sugar?"
