Cynthia was twenty-seven years old when she discovered that she was unable to do whatever she set her mind to with ease.
It might seem like a strange age to discover such a thing, as usually a person will find their confidence shaken long before then. Everyone has their strengths, and all that. But Cynthia Weber, apple of her parents eye and habitual success machine had always found that she naturally took to all things she tried.
From running track and playing girls lacrosse in high school, to academics and the arts in college, to her job working as a paralegal in a large firm settled in central London. Even moving abroad and ending up in England in the first place had been a breeze, despite growing up in small town America where anything further than the Dairy Queen in the next town seemed an entire world away.
Yes, Cynthia had always held the bull by the balls. But when she discovered the severe plumbing problems in the little flat she had purchased upon arriving in London, she met her match. Her father had always done the home improvements at home, her family being the picture of traditional gender roles. So when a pipe burst and her bathroom flooded, she knew that the first call she should have made was to a plumber.
Which she did, and which she firmly regretted when she got his estimate for the job. Her savings had already dwindled to next to nothing thanks to her costly relocation. Her new home was mortgaged, and her job paid well but not enough to cover her credit cards (which were maxed) and the plumbing. So the woman made a decision; she would fix it herself. How hard could it be?
The answer was: really fucking hard.
She didn't know a pipe wrench from a vise grip, and before long she was finding herself extremely grateful for the tiny second bathroom that still worked in her flat. But she didn't give up hope, and found herself turning to the trusty internet to help her out. It was there that she found her a forum specializing in home improvement, where people who had an actual idea of what the hell they were doing kindly offered their expertise and assistance to the poor little American girl who had become completely overwhelmed by her task.
It was on this forum that she met Gerald Parkman. At fifty-one years old, he had ample time over the years to figure out how to fix a busted pipe. Given his natural inclination towards fussiness, he had learned to take care of many basic tasks that would have required a tradesman, and he had been a lifesaver for Cynthia.
With his instruction and patient guidance through private messages, she had slowly managed to minimize the damage and fix a few things in her bathroom. He had even helped her to find someone else who charged much less to fix what was left over, while giving her pointers for other areas of her flat that needed work.
Throughout these messages they would often slip in personal conversation, getting to know one another. She knew his favorite food, and he knew that she went for a run in the evenings. They had spoken at length about favorite movies, music and even recommended books to one another. Given the difference in their ages, they seemed to have a great deal in common.
So when the bathroom was fixed and her flat fixed up, they still continued to speak. Only they took the next step and began to write at their respective email addresses, a touch more intimate to both of them. Not that anything that was said there had been inappropriate, more mildly flirtatious. At least as much as Gerald was willing to flirt, though he seemed to delight in her occasional implications and teasing.
After a particularly long day at the office, Cynthia happily entered her apartment, slipped off her shoes and jacket and headed to her computer. As it loaded the operating system, she wandered into the kitchen for a glass of wine, pulling her long, dark hair from its bun and shaking it out over her shoulders.
She was an attractive women, though not a beauty queen. Her hair was thick and a dark brown, almost black. Her skin was a light brown, though her ethnicity was always difficult for others to distinguish. Her eyes were so dark that they glittered like polished onyx, surrounded by thick lashes that she always wished were longer.
As for her body, she always considered it average. She was neither overweight nor thin, with a soft stomach and large breasts that were not nearly as firm as she would like. Her hips were narrow, but her bottom rounded just enough to be seen in the right kind of jeans.
Cynthia curled that body into a chair now, blowing a strand of hair from her face with her full lips. This had become a regular routine, getting online to surf various forums, read blogs or watch shows thanks to her not having a television with a working license. But her first port of call was always her email account, and when she saw Gerald's name heading a new message she grinned happily.
From: Gerald Parkman
Sent: Wednesday, April 12, 2012 5:47 PM
To: Cynthia Weber
Hello Cynthia,
You know, it doesn't matter how often I type your email address in, it still makes me laugh. I am almost thinking of creating one of my own, just to have something more interesting than my former work address to write to you from.
How are you? You had mentioned the other day that you had a large staff meeting to attend this morning, and you seemed nervous. I hope everything went well? In any case, I doubt you have anything to fear, even if there have been rumors of redundancies. I can only imagine they would be lost without such a clever woman on the payroll.
Sincerely,
Gerald
Cynthia read over this email with a smile. He was always considerate, and he frequently brought up things she had mentioned in the past. Which was much better than the last several men she had dated, all of whom were much too preoccupied with her tits to care much about what was going on in her life.
Taking a quick sip of her wine and placing it down on the desk, she opened up a reply window and wrote him back. Hopefully, he would be online and they could have one of their enjoyable evening chats...
* * *
Gerald Parkman had, for the most part, lived a satisfying life.
He came from a working class family, and he had not been in a position to go to university. But after working for a time at his father's struggling building company, he had secured a low level position in his early twenties at an insurance agency. Over the decades he had managed to climb the ladder, sticking with the same company tenaciously until he had been poached by a rivaling business and placed into upper-middle management.
Marrying young, his wife Agatha had watched him become more successful. He had been able to give her the things she wanted; a nice house, regular holidays, the ability to stay home with their only son, Anthony. All of which she had enjoyed, along with her credit cards, and she showed her appreciation by being an attentive and loving wife.
Over time, their relationship had...not soured, that wasn't the right word. More ebbed away into something barely there. They were friendly and courteous to one another, and fights were non-existent. Sadly, that was due to the lack of passion and communication, rather than any improvement in their marriage. As evidenced by their total lack of a sex life.
When they had first gotten married, Agatha had been willing to have sex, if not especially enthusiastic about it. Not that Gerald had ever complained, and over time he began to feel as though his desires were disrespectful to the wholesome woman who became all the more long suffering in performing the most basic of sexual tasks.
By the time their son was born, they made love perhaps once every couple of months. As Anthony grew, he was lucky to get any physical affection beyond a peck on the cheek. Besides the occasional spontaneous hand job out of pity, sex had entirely dried up by the time the boy was in high school.
Gerald had long since been spending more and more time at the office at this point. He would never be unfaithful to his wife, no matter how tempted, and so he kept himself busy at work. His office became a refuge, and the one place where, after hours, he would look at pornography and guiltily hide the evidence of his wanking before heading home. Usually thinking about the young women in the office that he would be forced to look in the eye the next day.
