"Damn him," I thought, as I cleared up the remains of supper in the kitchen, "One of these days I'll take a lover, and then he'll be sorry."
Harold was away on one of his endless "business trips" up north. These trips were constant, and he seemed to be more concerned with making money than spending time with Michael and I. Not that I could complain about money. He kept us very well provided for, but after the first two years of married life, he seemed to have very little interest in being in bed with me.
I could have easily taken a lover. At thirty-eight men still eyed me lasciviously, and given the slightest encouragement would have bedded me.
Finishing in the kitchen I went to the bathroom and showered. As I dried myself I took stock. Five feet eight inches tall. Long black hair and near black eyes. Nose a little longer than was fashionable, but mouth wide and lips full. A long, graceful neck that Harold had loved to kiss in earlier days. Breasts – well – I took a 38C, and despite breast-feeding many years ago, I still did not need a bra unless I was being "decent." Legs long and shapely, and ending in a firmly cleft vagina which I had long ago had stripped permanently of pubic hair.
All this had been for Harold. An attempt to lure him into satisfying my urgent female needs. It had not worked. I had remained faithful and frustrated.
Leaving the bathroom, I went rather disconsolately to my bedroom. A huge bed that had been the scene of our earlier carnal lusts, such as they had been, dominated the room. Now it might just as well have been a nun's narrow cot.
It was a warm night, so I put on one of the nightdresses that I had once hoped would entice Harold to more active intimate relations. It was an excessively flimsy affair that barely descended to mid thigh, and a top that exposed more than it covered as far as breasts were concerned. The whole was held up by almost non-existent shoulder straps. "What a waste of money," I thought.
Clambering into bed, I picked up my book, and propping up my pillows, I began to read. Another night of masturbation I thought.
I had been reading for about ten minutes when there was a knock at the bedroom door. The only person it could be was my son, Michael, so I called, "Come in."
His head came round the door and he enquired, "Talk, mum?"
When he was younger it had been our custom to have a bedtime talk, but this had not happened now for a long time. Surprised, and not unpleased at this reversion to earlier days, I said, "Of course."
As he approached the bed, I couldn't help telling myself what a fine masculine specimen I had raised. He was wearing only a pair of those minimal underpants youth is fond of. Peeping above the elastic waistband, I could see some curly pubic hair protruding. The pants hid a lot less than my nightdress, and I could see the outline of his testicles and what seemed like a partially erect penis lying sideways. "I haven't seen that for a long time," I thought.
When Michael entered puberty, like many other young people, he suddenly became shy about his developing body. From seeing him often undressed, I went to never seeing him in that condition. Looking now I saw how much his penis had grown since last I saw it, and thought, "My God, some lucky girls are going to get some pleasure from that."
Unthinkingly I reverted to another habit of the past. I pulled back the bed covers to allow him to climb in with me, from my semi sitting position I slid down the bed to lay on my back and put one arm out to encompass his shoulders when he got into the bed.
When he was young, we would often play games in bed, he hiding under the covers, while I pretended to try to find him. At some stage, he would pounce upon me, and sitting astride me would bounce up and down. At the time, I did not understand the real significance of these games.
Michael got in beside me and snuggled up so as to lie on his side facing me, just as he had done as a child, while I embraced him with one arm. It felt nice and affectionate, and the pleasure seemed to be enhanced by my recognition that he now had a man's body, and his nakedness apart from the underpants felt wonderful.
"What is it, darling?" I asked.
"Oh, nothing much," he replied. I just thought that you might be feeling lonely with dad away.
Dad had often been away, but this was the first time Michael had made any move to ease my loneliness in this way, so I assumed there must be something else on his mind. I cuddled up to him and waited.
He said nothing for a long time, and then, finally, he said quietly, "Do you miss dad a lot when he's away?"
"Yes, I suppose so," I lied rather hesitantly.
"I mean," he went on, "You are here alone with no one to talk to or do things with."
"Darling, I've got you," I laughed, "You are often at home and even if you are working in your room, I still know you are in the house. And I do have friends, you know."
"Yes, but it's not the same things, is it? I mean, there are things you don't do with friends that you do with a husband," he meditated.
"What sort of things, darling?"
There was another long pause as if he was trying to find a way of saying something that he was not sure how to express.
I was about to speak myself when Michael came back to life.
"I mean, feelings and the physical things husbands and wives do together."
I would have had to be rather foolish not to know what he was referring to, so I decided to bring it out clearly.
