Chapter Fifty
They say all good things must come to an end. That might be true, but sadly the same isn't true of all bad.
Although in hindsight the outcome was predictable, its beginning came from an entirely unexpected direction and at a time when everything else in my life seemed to be running smoothly.
I should have known it was just the lull before the storm.
I should have guessed that when the storm arrived, it would all be my fault. Again.
***
The sun had risen early that August morning, so I was giving nine-month-old Leanne her first feed of the day. Warm sunshine washed over the high-backed chair in which I sat, knickerless as usual, rubbing myself slowly on the carefully prepared towel on which I routinely sat.
Although I had become more accustomed to the extraordinary level of arousal breastfeeding routinely generated in me, it had not in any way diminished so I was rocking slowly back and forth as I fed, the ridge deliberately folded into the towel beneath my bare vulva, rubbing very pleasantly along the dark, damp valley between my puffy outer lips.
For last couple of months, all had been quite uncharacteristically smooth and well in the Barker household.
Apart from being small, everything else about Leanne's development was going to plan. The rumours about her parentage, though true, had been superseded by other, more recent scandals and it had been some weeks since anyone had done the double-take when seeing me and my mixed-race baby together.
Home from University and working at the same Garden Centre, Izzy and Jack had been together so much day and night that they had almost become joined at the hip and I had hardly seen them over the whole summer.
Whether they were avoiding both me and Jack's father I could not tell, but neither her nor my affair with Tony had been mentioned again, even in secret.
Tim and Thomas were happy, though I suspect still felt unnecessarily awkward sharing the bed in my son's room on the few occasions they had visited us.
Despite the trauma of the birth, Josh and Samantha were now openly discussing having a second child soon after the first 'to get it all over with' while they were still young.
Whether their comment was inspired by watching a fifty-two-year-old mother with a tiny baby in her arms was a question I was not feeling strong enough to ask, even of myself.
Even Tony's attempts to get back into my knickers had moderated. Thanks to local gossip, I knew this was at least partly because his most recently seduced, married conquest was proving even more exciting and demanding in bed than he had hoped.
I looked down at the dozing form in my arms as her appetite became replete, her sleepy eyes closed and the vice-like lock of her lips on my nipple was released.
A shiver of pleasure rippled through me as cool air touched the damp flesh of my teat. The nipple erection brought about by her suckling was now hardened further by the steady glow of sexual arousal emanating from between my thighs and which could not be ignored.
Pete had worked late the night before and had been too tired to make love on his return. Despite all my efforts, his surprisingly red cock had remained stubbornly flaccid, so my sexual needs, heightened by another couple of hours exposed in chatrooms, had remained frustratingly unsatisfied.
It was too early on a Saturday to wake him and demand his immediate sexual attention so, settling my baby back in her cot, I padded downstairs to the kitchen where my laptop was waiting, fully charged. I put on the kettle for tea, placed my carefully folded towel on one of the high stools at the breakfast bar, then perched on it and booted up the machine.
The rough towel's rough surface tickled and stimulated my vulva deliciously. If I could maintain this level of arousal, my writing would have the edge of verisimilitude I loved. I might even seek some relief with an unknown, remote partner in a chatroom if I got too aroused for anything but an orgasm to satisfy me.
Frustratingly, the laptop seemed to take an age to boot up but when it did, I logged into my secret author's email account as usual and clicked on the Inbox.
There were three messages waiting. One was from one of my longest-term correspondents; a real-life cuckold of many years' standing. Although his wife no longer met other men, his advice had been crucial in helping me with both my writing and in the early days of my own Hot Wife lifestyle.
I took his criticism of my stories very seriously, so read his comments on my latest publication carefully. To my relief, he had enjoyed it though he and his wife had managed her infidelities differently.
With a contented smile, I clicked on the second message. I expected it to be from an unfamiliar reader, either praising or hating my work, so I opened it with some trepidation and read the contents anxiously.
Then I sat back in my chair in horror.
'Like the present in the garden?' the message read. 'Next time it'll be a lot closer to home!'
That was all it said.
It took a few moments and several re-reads before it sank in. Then, leaving my laptop logged into my email, I jumped to my feet, ran bare bottomed out of the kitchen and across the hallway to the large picture window that overlooked the front of the house.
"Oh my God!" I squealed as I looked out at the driveway.
My husband came running out of the bedroom and onto the landing in his boxer shorts.
"What's wrong?" he demanded anxiously.
"Look!"
I pointed through the large picture window and into the front garden. On the driveway were our two cars; my husband's Porsche and my own SUV. Pete's pride and joy was as pristine as is always was, but the same could not be said of the vehicle alongside.
I threw open the front door and ran out onto the driveway, barefoot and in my night dress, my husband only feet behind me.
"Christ!"
From its bonnet to its rear door, my beautiful shiny car had been covered with graffiti. Large, bright-red, spray-painted words adorned every panel.
And what words!
'Slut!' 'Marriage breaker!' Cheating cunt!' were only a few of the choice phrases presented.
"Who the fuck would do this?" Pete demanded walking slowly around the ruined car. "I'm calling the Police now!"
He left me gawping at the painted obscenities while he stomped back into the house.
I circled the car slowly. Not one panel had escaped the paint and the words were hateful. Eventually Pete materialised at my shoulder. I turned to face him, expecting to see concern and support but instead was met with an angry frown.
He stared at me, his face one big scowl.
"This is personal Penny. You know what this is about and this time, you're going to tell me the truth. All the truth."
It wasn't a question; it was an accusation. I froze, speechless.
The beginning of the end had started.
***
It was a long time before the Police arrived at the house. Having ascertained that with Pete present, there was no immediate risk to me, our problem had been prioritised down the list.
That left three long, terrible hours for my husband to grill me on the last remaining secret between us.
Pete took full advantage of the opportunity. During a tense, painful and tear-filled period punctuated by the need to attend to Leanne on a regular basis, I gradually confessed the truth about my life as an author of erotic stories.
For some reason, the confession of this secret was far harder to make, harder than when I had told him about my affair with Tony. Not surprisingly, Pete was badly hurt and very upset; not that I had written erotica, but that I had kept it secret from him for so long.
When the young constable arrived, the atmosphere between my husband and me was glacial. We put on as good a show as we could, but the body language must have spoken volumes.
A cursory inspection revealed that, although our drive was gated to vehicles, we had left the doorway for deliveries unlocked overnight, allowing easy access. A longer look at the car quickly established that this was much more than just mindless vandalism and was consequently out of the young man's pay scale.
Mid-afternoon a short, unimpressed female Detective Sergeant arrived, and events began to gather a dreadful momentum of their own.
"You write what, Mrs. Barker?" the sneer in her voice was cruel. "Doctor Barker, I should have said."
Given the emails I had received and the actual physical attack on my car, I had no choice but to confess what had happened right up front. Anything else would have been stupid; I might actually be under threat of physical violence.
"I write erotica," I repeated.
"You mean pornography?" she asked, forcing me to repeat myself. "Dirty stories?"
"That's what she said," Pete jumped in, defending me. "She's a very popular author with a large following."
I stared at him. Was that an element of pride in his voice?
"And you publish anonymously, online, you say?"
The disbelief was intended to be cruel and was so.
"Yes," I blushed.
"And no doubt you get trolled from time to time. As a female porn author you must get a lot of nasty messages like today's."
"Yes," I confirmed, still trying to keep my composure. "I do."
"But this was not an online attack, Doctor Barker," she said slowly. "This was a very real attack in your front garden."
There was no denying that fact.
"So, either this attack is nothing to do with your writing, or else someone has managed to find out where you live. Have you ever told anyone your address online?"
"Never," I insisted.
"Have you ever given away clues in your conversations?"
"No. Well..."
"Penny?" Pete stepped in. "You think you might have?"
"I don't know! I'm not sure," I replied, getting upset. "I've had so many conversations with so many people over the years. Maybe I did give away too much by accident."
