Dream Reality

When it happened for Maria it was like a dream. The pieces fell into place with surreal ease and there were touches of precise oddity usually only reserved for night time imaginings. Even during it, when her body was shuddering with the full intensity, the utter simplicity of how it came about would make it feel unreal. To think it started with something as invidious as a virus - not hers but her husband’s - some kind of flu that came on with aching, wasting, fever-imbuing remorselessness, so that mere hours from the first soreness noticed in the throat he was plastered to the sheets, shivering and sweating and not far from delirium. Give him his due, he was never ill enough for it to outweigh the chance of working and making money, so this time it had to be bad.

The crux of it all was that by coincidence she was on a day off, forced upon her to ensure she got all her holiday entitlement for the year. Nothing had been planned. There was vague talk about her husband joining her for the day, or at least for lunch, until his illness put paid to that. Once she had seen the kids off to school she envisaged a day spent at leisure, hopefully without having to waste it tending to him, although she knew she would almost certainly stick around to be at his beck and call. It would cause too much of a scene if she went out and left him there alone. He would end up in a huff or getting nasty. From the school she drove to the little run of shops in the village centre to get him some throat sweets and a flu remedy, not that she foresaw any of these actually working. It was there that she walked headlong into Hunter.

She practically bounced off his chest, dropping the medicine packet she had been busily reading the back of, rather than noticing where she was going. The embarrassment had her flustered from the start, although there was some relief after scrabbling around his feet to retrieve the dropped package that it proved to be him and not some random stern-faced stranger. His expression was impassive, as if this was exactly the type of behaviour he might expect from her, or any girl that ran into him for that matter. Being known to the person she had collided with did not prevent her heart-rush. It was him after all, and any sightings of her most alluring neighbour always came with an instant increase of the pulse, especially such face to face meetings.

‘He’s in bed with the lurgy,’ she gabbled by way of explanation. ‘If you believe him he will be lucky to make it through the hour, which is pretty much going to scupper my day off. If you hear bells ringing in the street don’t be alarmed - it will just be me bringing out my dead.’

There was a hint of amusement on his face but still he remained quiet, looking down upon her as a teacher might regard an aimlessly chattering pupil. She knew the colour had gone to her cheeks. Worse, she knew that beneath her thin coat she had on an old grey T-shirt and her tight black tracksuit bottoms, the ones with the two garish pink stripes running down the outside of each leg, which didn’t exactly match her brightly white trainers. It was not how she would have chosen to be seen. She was primed for a Wii Fit workout. Even the need to change clothes once home might have caused procrastination which could easily lead to her postponing exercise in favour of another coffee and some daytime TV. She had to be ready to go or it would never happen. Her exposure to the public eye was only meant to be for two minutes, max. She had no notions of seeing anyone she knew. She had never counted on walking into him.

Despite being embarrassed enough by her attire to want to make a quick escape she was still talking at him, telling him how rough her husband’s bout of illness was, using a little sarcasm here and there to demonstrate that however bad he had it, the patient was still a moaning bastard deserving little sympathy. She wanted to shut up. Something told her that Hunter was above such small-talk, somehow too beautiful to be troubled with such trifles. She tried to deduce why she couldn’t stop chuntering. She tried to remember previous conversations in which, surely, she had managed to say something to him of import. It struck her that this was the first time she had ever been alone with him, face to face. She had spoken nonsense at him before but always in company, when others had been chipping in too, bombarding him with equally useless chatter. In fact, she could only picture him when stoically and politely withstanding a tirade of pointless, half-flirty female prattling. He must be a magnet for it.

Oh, to say something profound now, something to touch this brooding, reserved soul, to unleash the wild passion surely stored inside. Something her own husband would scorn and deride, because he was too crude and oafish and insensitive to be touched by such things. Anything, really, to prove that she was far above that sneering, belittling, underhand man currently plaguing her marital bed. However, nothing came to mind, so instead of some show-stopping proclamation, all she did was tail off mid-sentence with a little exhalation and offer him a silly half-smile that in a roundabout way meant, it’s OK, I’ve finally shut up now. Oh, to not feel vacuous and insignificant in his presence for once. She was clever, witty and pretty, so why couldn’t she just shine? She was amazed at just how unimpressive her attempts to impress always proved. Why couldn’t she just be herself around him?

She had left him the difficult task of bringing this surprise meeting to a conclusion, knowing he’d do well to extricate himself with anything like good grace. The more the silence of her unfinished sentence hung there, the more she expected him to just push past and leave her without adding to the zero words he had so far said to her that morning. A seismic event was required: a car crash outside or a lightning strike, or maybe an escaped lunatic breaking into their midst - something to divert attention and allow this silence to pass. An armed robbery perhaps, with him first protecting her and then taking down the robbers with his bare hands, and then returning to sweep her off her feet and into his bed. Or him as the robber - yes, that would be good. Him suddenly pulling a stocking over his face and revealing a gun, dragging her with him to the counter and fleeing with his booty and her as a hostage, to use and abuse in his hideaway. Why were her thoughts so inevitably turned to rudeness when it came to him? Her daydreams were broken by him unexpectedly addressing her.

‘So, alone and bored downstairs all day while your husband lies upstairs confined to bed?’ he said.

‘Yes, I suppose I will be,’ she replied.

He gave her statement some thought, nodding a couple of times whilst raising his eyebrows in consideration. Then he was off. His parting shot was delivered without him even looking back at her. ‘Sounds like you need rescuing,’ he said.

She stood rooted to the spot as he went to the counter and paid for his milk. If he had glanced in her direction he would have seen he left her with the breath still stuck in her chest. She dallied in the shop to ensure he was out of sight once she made her return home; it would have been too much to trail home twenty yards behind him, trying to avoid catching him up. His last words were still going around her head when she was back in her lounge, fishing inside the TV cabinet for her Wii handset. Pondering upon his meaning helped blot out the intrusion of the hacking cough coming from upstairs.

These words were going to make her obsess, she knew it. They reminded her of that time, way back at his welcoming party, when he had suggestively proclaimed that none of the girls of the street were safe from him. That one line had given rise to a string of fantasies about him, coming now at a rate of two or three each week, seemingly impossible to stop once they had sprung to mind. She was practically a slave to them, having to scuttle off in secret to drive them from her head through climax. He was always so relentless in them, so unstoppable. She knew these fantasies had already stripped away any chance she had of resisting him if he came for her in real life, just as that welcoming party statement seemed to promise he would.

She closed the lounge curtains so that none of her neighbours could catch her prancing about on the spot or doing lunges whist red-faced and sweaty. She managed to complete the workout although her mind was preoccupied with the morning’s chance meeting and the thoughts it inspired. The masked robber idea really was a good one and needed further exploration. This was her now: almost obsessed with rude fantasies and sneaking moments alone to dwell upon them.

She kept her hands to herself as she showered, mindful that her husband could rouse himself from his near-coma at any time and catch her in the act. She needn’t have worried. He was too out of it to even give her his usual list of demands for coffee, breakfast, and such like. She felt sorry for him - she couldn’t help that - but it was nice to have him silenced for once. She slipped into a fresh T-shirt and jogging bottoms, knowing full well housework called. However, any external sleuth would have noticed her failure to don any underwear. They would have noted how easy it would be for her hand to slip inside the elasticated waistband if she failed to keep herself busy with chores.

The hot shower had soothed some of her workout-induced muscle aches but she still decided she had earned a cup of tea and a brief sit down before getting on with things. The TV was showing a live-audience interview with a mother who had called the police because her daughter was a prostitute, even though she had been one herself. The programme host commanded Maria to stay exactly where she was because after the break the daughter would be coming out to face the mother, and a little bit of VT proved this promised lots of finger-pointing and beeped-out swearing. Why did these programmes never feature supposedly happily married women who all of a sudden seem possessed by the need to fantasise and masturbate - perhaps even being forced to by the telepathic powers of a newly arrived, rather luscious neighbour? Maybe then she would find a cure.

Even the thought of him having that power over her sent the heat between her legs and started the itch. Imagine being under that spell - not from some wizened, fat old bastard but by someone as hard and attractive as Hunter. Where just one look meant you had to obey, to let him use you as he wanted without even a word. She should have got up and opened the curtains while she still had some control over herself. As long as they stayed shut the opportunity was there. But her legs felt just a bit too heavy to force her up from the sofa. So the inevitable happened. The mug of tea was placed on the table by the arm of the sofa. Her eyes closed against the raucous slanging match on the TV. Her thighs parted and her fingers pushed down inside her jogging bottoms.

He would get her when she was outside and vulnerable. A big black 4x4 would suddenly be in her mirrors with lights flashing, and then howling past to slow and stop her. He would be out and on her, ordering her from the car before she could react. The double shock would addle her mind and freeze her reactions: first the stocking over the head distorting the features; second the gun pointing her way. It would be a black pistol, an automatic one. No - not a pistol, but a shotgun, the twin barrels sawn down so it could be held in one hand like some over-long ancient flintlock. There was something very cool about heavy, deadly weaponry being wielded one-handed. All the best action heroes did it, perhaps with a gun in each hand, although he needed to keep one free to drag her out and bundle her onto the back seat of every swanky villain’s first choice of do-baddery vehicle: the black, massively-tyred, top-of-the-range 4x4. With tinted windows all round, of course.

Once she might have taken time to flesh out the details of the journey time but these days she was too impatient to get onto the juicier stuff. All she imagined was his stocking being pulled up as he drove her through deserted country roads, and a glimpse in the rear-view mirror of his eyes, which gave the game away. The motive for her abduction was not explored. Maybe something to do with a debt her husband owed, or payback for one of his underhand stunts. All that was really important was that she was taken to an isolated farmhouse and escape was not on the cards.

She wanted to take time with the build-up but her fingers were moving with even greater urgency than normal, perhaps because she knew she was not alone and that at any moment a call from upstairs might interrupt her. She was stripped and on her knees upon an old mattress, forced to face away from him although his identity had already been ascertained. A cloth had been stuffed in her mouth to stop her from crying out, not that anyone could have heard. In one hand he held her by the hair, pulling her so that she arched backwards, her fingertips only just able to stay in contact with the mattress. In the other hand was the shotgun, the cold hardness of the barrels pressing into her back as he tugged upon her tresses.

His size and strength could have defeated her anyway but for this fantasy the gun was most important. Not because she had a sordid fetish about having one used on her but because it rendered her helpless. It meant that her wifely loyalties couldn’t even be considered. It meant that instantly no blame could be laid at her door. Guilt did not have to be a part of this dream. He didn’t speak. She heard his zip coming down in the silence and she pictured her own wide eyes, waiting the inevitable invasion from behind. She moved her fingers down from where they had been pressing, finding the slickness of her entrance, poised to mirror his entry. She tried to hold back but her lust greedily took over, leaving her gasping out loud as she slid her fingers right in up to the knuckle. Then her dream was broken.

She blinked hard, as if she had just woken in bright sunlight, staring towards the door where the click of the handle had alerted her. There he stood, all in black: a balaclava with holes cut for the eyes and mouth; a thin, tightly fitting roll-neck jumper; plain trousers and shoes. The only visible parts of his anatomy were his hands, a hint of lips behind the mouth-hole, and the eyes. It was the latter that gave him away, so recognisable was he from just these that although the shock had already swept through her body, she didn’t even begin to feel scared.

She had no clue of his arrival until too late. She had been caught - eyes tight shut and hand down trousers, no possible way he could misconstrue what she had been doing. She was frozen, her guilty hand unable to slip back out from the stretched waistband. He remained totally calm, unfazed by how he’d discovered her. His eyes quickly swept the room to ascertain the surroundings. One finger came up to the mouth-hole to instruct her to remain silent. She couldn’t have made a noise anyway. That same finger then pointed up towards the ceiling and she could see the eyebrows rising questioningly. She knew what this sign meant. He was asking if her husband was upstairs. She nodded, hoping this would not deter him, although somehow she already knew it would not.

He stepped across to the coffee table and used the TV remote control to raise the volume a notch. Then he was down on his knees before her, between her spread legs. There was no preamble, nor had she earned one having being caught in such a compromising position, even if she was in the privacy of her own front room. He reached forward and took hold of the waistband either side of her hips and began to drag her jogging bottoms down. She lifted up to help him, already too addled with desire to think of potential dangers. As her nudity was slowly revealed her fingers were finally able to slip from inside her, resting wet and glistening on her thigh, a sign of what a naughty girl she could be when he possessed her mind.

The leggings were pulled completely clear and discarded. She couldn’t even find the modesty to close her legs, giving him a lingering sight of her naked puss before he moved his head downwards. Then he was coming at her as he did in so many of her dreams, rising up as if from the floor, his tongue tracing a line up her inner thigh towards her openness. He stopped to take hold of her hand and lift it just enough to engulf the two wet fingers and suck upon them; such a dirty thing to do but one that had her gasping and squirming against her seat. Then the tongue was at her sex, lapping upwards to part her and release her flow. She could smell her fresh scent rising, her insides hot as they were, mixed with the citrus tones of her shower gel.

He didn’t stay long down there. In truth it would have been too much of a tease and he seemed to know this. She heard his zip come down, just as she had in her fantasy. This time the inevitable would happen without interruption, certainly not from her. Up he came until his eyes were level with hers, his hands staying behind her knees to force her hips forward and her legs from the seat. The more he rose, the higher her legs went, resting now against his shoulders, pressing her back into the sofa and rendering her powerless to move. She wasn’t thinking of making any noise but his hand came down over her mouth and she couldn’t help but squeal with the joy of it.

This was something her husband had stopped doing to her years ago. How could he know she loved this? There was no way she would have let such a secret slip out in front of him. Sure, to her shame, she and probably all of the girls had, during their drunken efforts to flirt with him, let out a few saucy secrets about what floated their boat. They were just little hints to betray a naughtier side, to whet his appetite and give indications that even though they were married it didn’t mean they planned to stay good - even if they did. No way would she have got so drunk and careless to let him know about this little foible, or of her recurring thoughts of being forced by masked men. Yet here he was with his hand clasped tight to her mouth and his own face concealed. He must be able to read minds.

He pressed forward so that she was open and vulnerable and he was looking right into her eyes. The entry was slow and glorious, a smooth electric slide that did not stop until his crotch was at hers and she was filled. He would be able to see the bliss in her wide eyes and feel her shaking beneath him. She managed to suppress her yell into his palm. It struck her that by turning up the TV he had reduced their chances of hearing noises upstairs, of being alerted to any approach. But she knew. She knew he had done it not to cover their sound but to keep her from straining to hear noises upstairs. He had done it to force her concentration onto the moment at hand, and not even think about discovery.

The thrusts were measured and heavy, enough to feel the weight of his slap against her, below her seeping entrance. All the time he held her gaze, his eyes alive and full of intent, hunger even. He was as deep as anyone had ever been inside her, his curve allowing him to reach that spot inside her, so that all the time the delicious current seemed to be flowing through her body, making her shake and clench upon him. Although there was only a single flight of stairs between them and discovery he would not rush. He just kept the same pace, hard and deep, as if he planned to go on forever.

She tried to keep her eyes open but in the end the waves of bliss became too great and she had to close them. He took that as his cue, speeding up to a final burst, forcing her pleasure to an even higher plane before finishing hot inside her. He stayed buried but still she was too overcome to open her eyes. She sat exhausted and euphoric as he waited until he could slip from her and ease down her aching legs. There wasn’t going to be any kisses or cuddles or conspiratorial giggles because in her fantasies there never was, and he seemed to know her private thoughts just as well as she did. He would just leave as silently as he arrived, the masked stranger who took her and fucked her deliciously without scruple, giving her all the rapture she once thought her husband would provide. She sat there, eyes closed and smiling, still naked from the waist down, her fingers stroking between her thighs, barely caring that her husband might find her this way. It took her the rest of the morning to rouse herself, and when she did she thought she must have imagined the whole unbelievable episode.

Content

Some might have been driven up the wall by the lack of follow-up to such an event. Shelley actually found it somehow comforting, exciting even. Yes, everybody wants that confirmation that it meant something, that it was good - that you were good - but just the briefest mention of it would enforce the reality, and that would bring the guilt crashing home. He had seen her a couple of times since, just fleetingly, but had acted as if nothing had happened. No hushed asides, no conspiratorial winks or knowing smiles, no nothing. He just behaved exactly as he had done before: good-humoured; chivalrous; slightly reserved. It had even made her think that it couldn’t have been him that came to her after all, even though it most surely was. Or that it couldn’t have happened at all, even though it must have done. However, just that slight doubt kept it more as an imagined fantasy rather than a reality, and that was fine by her.

It was rather exciting to think that an unidentified man had come to you in total darkness and given you the best night of your life. Sure, she couldn’t imagine anyone nicer than him, but that wasn’t the point. By not breaking the spell he was allowing the fantasy to continue, and keeping her safe at the same time. If he only ever came to her like this then she could certainly live with that. If he never came to her again then at least she had that one night, which would grow ever more surreal as time went on and thus lessen her guilt. Sure, she would yearn for another taste as she already did. She would imagine other sublime things he would do to her. But she had to control that yearning, to make it a pleasurable memory rather than a nagging ache. She knew that however many times he came to her she would still want more. No amount would ever complete her, so she should just keep that one time and cherish it. Make it the single best moment to hold dear and to be enough, rather than just the first of a string of ever more dangerous and needy couplings that inevitably unravelled the happiness. Just take it and be glad. Use it not to rule your life but only to lighten it.

She couldn’t say that it hadn’t already changed her. She surprised herself by how strong her defence against her husband had been when he came home from his time away and found her appearance so altered. It annoyed her that he clearly liked what he saw - just as she had always known he would - but wouldn’t back down immediately and admit it. Normally she would have caved and cried and been all apologies. He would have got his way, even if it was the wrong way. This time she had fire inside, along with the highest endorsement she could hope for. She had stood firm and not even allowed him to put his side across. It was a done deal and he simply had to get used to that.

Of course, it helped that in the pub he was apparently greeted with comments from all and sundry about how good his wife now looked. Even the Italian was complimentary and he was usually the biggest advocate of the slutty look. Her husband was jokingly advised, apparently, to keep his wife under lock and key or face a procession of lusty neighbours all intent on cuckolding him. Sure, the language wasn’t perhaps this flowery but it was exactly the type of thing her husband wanted to hear. Well, he could do what he liked with this kind of backhanded compliment because those days were over. She wasn’t going to play the flirty plaything wife any more. These were going to be days of more respect, of greater equality, and some sophistication.

Her transformation wasn’t yet complete. Physically there would be the breast reduction, which she had already told him she was going to get, not asked him or timidly mentioned it as something she, perhaps, might benefit from, if it was all right with him. In the bedroom there would have to be more patience, more attention to her needs. She was thriving off her new-found confidence, and he would surely soon come to realise the benefits of it. She would have her pleasure even if it meant tying him down! For so long she had been the mouse but now it was time to step out of his shadow.

She was to be her from now on. She would love him as before but not at any price. She would honour him as best she could, feel the guilt of her sin - although never quite enough to regret it. She would always know it was the thing that catapulted her into this new tier of happiness. From now on Shelley would be content. She would bake her cakes, enjoy her friends and her freedom and love her husband. And she would privately look forward to the days when another training course took him away again, leaving her all alone and unguarded in bed, and with the kitchen door forgetfully unlocked.

Opened Up

Nesta was nervously running her fingers up and down the stem of the wine glass, her eyes fixed downward. For all her butterflies she knew she was going to start it, and that robbed her of the courage to look at him. She could sense he knew why she was there. They were close. He had sat her down and then purposefully pulled a chair around from the other side to place at the end so that he could sit diagonally across from her, nearer to her. Their knees were almost touching beneath the table top. They were close enough for her to be able to smell him: that fine fragrance; gentle hints of it picked up every now and then. It calmed her a little, the familiarity of it.

He was looking gorgeous, as always. She almost thought to tell him, to get the flirting out there and obvious from the start. She could innocently remark, perhaps, about how nice the smart white shirt, with top button and cuffs undone, looked against his sun-browned skin. Then she lost her nerve. She should really have been petrified, sat there in the almost starkly quiet kitchen, contemplating the unthinkable, wondering how the situation could be engineered so that she had no way of not giving in to it. She couldn’t get up and run though. She already knew that every chair in this house, any seat that ever found itself within his vicinity, had already been fitted with his own patented Human Female Magnet.

She took another large sip, vaguely noting that this wine was different from the last time but no less exquisite. The alcohol wasn’t going to wipe away her culpability. She knew it would be a conscious decision, a wilful overriding of her moral senses. He was quiet, not even contributing the small talk which might have defused her running emotions. But then again it was her that had knocked upon his door.

‘I must confess,’ she said, ‘I haven’t really any excuse for coming here other than wanting to see you.’

‘Well you came to the right place. If you had gone next door I wouldn’t have been there.’

‘I like being with you.’ It sounded lame and juvenile, but she didn’t know how else to broach the subject. Still she couldn’t look him in the eye.

‘And I like you being with me.’

‘Yes, but you like being with lots of girls, don’t you? You admitted as much yourself.’ It almost felt like backtracking, like a reason to duck out again.

‘I might have said something along those lines but it’s not strictly true,’ he replied, his calmness at odds with her jitters. ‘I certainly find women generally beautiful, inside and out. These days they certainly do tend to inspire some pretty strong, shall we say, urges, but I think that’s because I’ve been so short of female company over the years. In truth, only a fraction of my adult life has been shared with women. I missed that interaction. I never had the chance to converse about things other than guns and poker and fighting. My soul needs to make up for being deprived of the fairer sex, to listen and to learn about them, to just enjoy being with them. However, in terms of actual action, there isn’t that much to speak of. It’s rather counter-productive, but I think I tend to give that impression to help put women off me.’

‘Oh I see,’ she said with a grin, feeling a little stronger now. ‘And why would a minger like you need to put us off?’

‘Well, because I’m utter rubbish when it comes to mixing with people. You might have noticed. Sure, I’ve adapted a good range of composed expressions to use during conversations, but I certainly need them because my mind is often either spinning around or blocking. Sometimes I just stand there unable to say a single thing at all. I’m hoping it makes me look understanding or wise but I have a strong suspicion it just makes me look either rude or stupid. I still all too often get het up when I’m not alone - irrational yes, but an unwanted symptom of my days of confinement - and this can take me over and render me rather useless. I’m prone to a rushing need for space and light and absolute freedom. Anything else can make me panic, which is a feeling I haven’t been used to and so don’t yet know how to cope with. A need for escape and solitude isn’t going to make for good relationships. I’m reluctant to seek the company of others, particularly lovely womenfolk, for fear they will all too soon realise that I’m actually rather crap.’

‘What’s this?’ she giggled, ‘Mr Perfect admitting to some flaws?’

‘Nestling, my sweet, I am without doubt the most flawed person I know.’

‘So says the man with the tidiest kitchen in the Northern Hemisphere!’

‘My tidiness is just a habit, courtesy of the army life. Back then you got upward of a thousand lashes if just one single sock was left under your bed. It’s a discipline thing that I’m yet to shake off. Plus my book on meditation taught me that tidy surroundings help with an uncluttered mind.’

‘Well, what about your nails? They aren’t exactly normal for a man. You must get them done at least once a week. That’s got to be at the very least verging on obsessive?’

‘The painting ruins them. Shortly after I came back from Africa, a woman told me I had rough hands. She was a manicurist by trade, so perhaps the hands were her primary way of judging people. She told me I’d never please any female if I didn’t have smooth hands and well-kept nails.’

‘I see. So your sole aim in life is to do things to please women?’

‘Well,’ he smiled, ‘perhaps that can be the point of me.’

There was a little internal lurch at this reminder of her misjudged words last time she was here. ‘Yes, I’m sorry about that. I hadn’t meant that to sound like it did.’

‘I think perhaps I use the excuse of my wife a little too much - Lord knows she wouldn’t want me to go through life festering alone. She would want me to be with someone. Unfortunately, I know I’m not ready for it yet. I’m not ready to share and commit. I wouldn’t be able to handle being so close to someone. It’s not how I want to be but my body’s internal defence mechanism just isn’t listening. If I tried to be with someone now, however much I liked them, I would still end up feeling claustrophobic. I would panic and run and ruin everything, and I don’t want to hurt anyone again. If I can ease myself back into the real world then maybe relationships will come easier, but it is difficult whilst remaining so insular. Sadly, right now, the more I mix, the more people will see the damage and the flaws.’

‘Nonsense! Just get in there and be yourself!’

‘That’s the problem. I cannot just be myself because there is no such thing as me. From the moment I left my studies I joined the business of conflict, horror and killing. After that I continued it, but without even the moral standpoint of belonging to a national army. Thereafter I was holed up in a cess-pit prison where degradation and mental cruelty were the daily prerequisites. Over those twenty years I lost my ability to have faith, to love, to trust and even to interact.

‘There was not a shred of goodness to my adult life other than my wife, which is possibly why I cling to her so deeply, because otherwise I had no worth whatsoever, no reason to be, except it seems to add to the world’s darkness. I have no history I want to share with other people. I have no internal well of wisdom and grace to draw upon, so I have to begin again. Everything about me starts here. If I am to make any headway I need to learn from now on and lose the past. But people will always want to know this history. It’s human nature because we are creatures of instinct. We learn and survive through experience gained. How you acted in the past can give an insight into how you will act in the present, and people close to you will always want these insights. I think that’s why I can’t handle the thought of someone getting close to me again.’

She had taken him by the hands as he was saying this, trying to show some solidarity and understanding. Just this meagre contact was heart-swelling. It was good that he felt he could share these intimacies with her. She wanted to know more but was very aware how that had turned out before.

‘Last time I was here,’ she said, ‘I thought for one crazy moment that you might scoop me up and place me upon your chaise longue and seduce me. I think I managed to put you off by insisting you talk about your past, which almost certainly killed the romance. It’s been on my mind a lot recently that I rather wish I hadn’t made you do this. If I had the chance again then I think I would just shut up and let you be who you wanted to be.’

‘We all deserve a second chance,’ he said with a little smile, and then leant forward to plant a kiss on each of her hands in turn. ‘I’m not sure about the scooping up bit. Can’t I just lead you?’

She didn’t really give an answer, certainly no more than a vague nod of the head, but he was standing and lifting her gently from the seat, and then taking her out of the kitchen and across to his studio. The picture was there on the easel, covered to hide its secrets, but she was far less jealous now, since this moment definitely belonged to her alone. He sat next to her, looking into her eyes. It didn’t matter what he claimed about his feelings of insecurity when with people; the blank minds and the tied tongue. He looked as assured and controlled as ever, this perfect man. It was she who felt naive and ungrounded, standing on the precipice, about to become a new type of person forever, wanting it but still too guilt-ridden to ask. If he was waiting for consent she couldn’t give it. She wasn’t sure she was capable of anything sensible now at all.

‘Have you called it anything?’ she asked, her mind everywhere, the nerves clearly audible in her voice.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘The lovely mural of the boats - have you given it a name?’

‘I hadn’t thought to.’

‘You should call it Muriel.’

He laughed quietly and squeezed her hand. ‘It shall be known thus from now on.’

‘This thing you are going to do to me - that I want you to do to me - you know you can’t do it if I say no.’

‘If...’

‘The thing is, I still don’t know that I can say yes.’

‘I’m not asking you to say anything at all,’ he said.

Silence being golden, he held her gaze, his expression serious. She could see that he wanted her. He would see the same from her. It was wrong, of course - the contact would make it so. You could wish for someone as much as you liked without the sin being made real, as long as it was only in your head. You could yearn for them and dream the scenarios and hope it could be true, but until you laid your hands upon them the actual betrayal would not be realised. Unfortunately, there was no other way to absolutely encapsulate your desire except through physicality. You can speak it, sing it, paint it, but the only way to truly show how much someone means to you is through touch. It is the only meaningful outlet for those emotions - which is why people do it, even when they know they shouldn’t. He leant forward and kissed her, and then there was no going back.

There was passion, but it was measured. Their obvious need for each other was checked by his patience. They kissed for a long time and his hands limited their exploration and gave her time to overcome her nerves. His lips went to her neck, and then her T-shirt was coming up and off. She closed her eyes and stretched her head back as her bra was unclipped and removed to leave her chest bare and at the mercy of his mouth. Her hands reached behind her, her wedding ring clinking against the spiral staircase behind them. She curled her fingers around the twisted iron balusters and held them as her flesh grew and tingled under the attention of his lips and his tongue and his teeth. She imagined herself tied there by the wrists, at his mercy, unable to do anything about this ravishment.

His kisses were back at her neck and ears now, and his shirt was open. The chest felt smooth and firm against hers, just as she always imagined. The temptation to run her fingertips over it was strong, but she kept her grip on the stair rail, as if that meant she was tied and guiltless in all of this. She opened her eyes and glimpsed his body, saw the darkness of the even tan and the lighter smooth lines of two prominent scars - one running down his right side from ribcage to back; the other, some six inches in length, right across the left pectoral muscle. This released her grip. She stroked along the length of this second scar, the one above his heart. ‘Did they cut it out?’ she asked, quietly, although in truth she was glad of the feel of the beat beneath her fingers, which told her he was real for sure. She couldn’t bear to think how many internal scars there must have been.

‘Maybe one day it will grow back,’ he replied. Then he was rising and taking her by the hand once more, leading her up the spiral stairs to his bed. There were moments to take some details in, although they wouldn’t be properly processed until much later when she was alone. The room was neat and smelled fresh, and just slightly of him. The sunlight was coming in through the blinds but they were tilted so as not to need adjustment to prevent prying eyes. The bed was neatly made: satin modern covers in predominantly chocolate brown tucked inside a low-slung dark ash wood frame. The sloping-back headboard was high but not one inelegant solid piece, broken up as it was by a large cut-out divided into long empty rectangles by thin square wooden rails running vertically.

The furniture was sleek and modern. There were low wide chests all in matching dark ash, and a run of mirrored robes. It was precisely the kind of furniture she thought he would own. These surroundings did give one instant impression, one she felt just fleetingly, although it was enough to send a sweep of elation through her. The room was chic but functional, the surfaces clear of clutter. The art on the wall was smart but understated: Rothko-like abstracts of merging colours in dark frames. Everything was square as opposed to flowing or brash or macho. It was quiet, somehow lonely. It was clearly not a room where seductions took place regularly, if at all. It was a room just for him - and now, thankfully, for her.

They made love on top of the bed. He took his time and again she found herself closing her eyes and stretching back, grasping the thin rails of the headboard this time, imagining being tied. Mind-reading was ever his forte it seemed, and he took the hint, finding his discarded shirt beside them and threading it through the gaps in the headboard rails, bringing the sleeves back through to loosely wrap around and secure her wrists. It was just a taste of a kink she always knew she might like but had never tried; she and her husband didn’t reveal such personal foibles to each other, for some strange reason. It gave her an instant hit of added anticipation. Her restraints would not have withstood any serious attempt at freedom but they were enough to give her the buzz of feeling under his control.

Once she was tied he slipped a sleep mask over her eyes. She wanted to see him but this at least removed any final inhibitions, so once her lace knickers came off she was able to let her thighs fall apart for him. As he kissed his way down her body she was fizzing with excitement and with a smile spread across her face, knowing that this was already every bit as good as she had imagined it. He took his time, and so when he finally came back up to kiss her on the lips and let her taste her own bliss, she’d experienced her first ever climax whilst being tied; something new and secret to treasure and remember.

He kept her bound for just a little while longer, turning her to her side to spoon her, entering her for the first time this way. She felt hot as hell inside and he even gasped as he pushed slowly forward and slid into her. Apart from that he was almost silent, but then no words were needed here. She liked it best that way. He just stayed pressed to her, kissing her neck and face, his hand stroking her hip or over her breasts, her belly, or down between her thighs. Then she was on her front with him upon her, his breath at her ear. This time he did begin to move in and out of her, a slow action that was more about pressing into her than driving back and forth. His hands came up to hers and held them. At some point, while he was grinding against her behind and filling her, he untied her wrists and let her free. The mask was kept in place, there for as long as she wanted it on.

Her second climax came when he was on his back and she was riding him - not when she was facing him, although she had enjoyed the thrill of being watched for once, the blindfold stripping her of her modesty - but when he manoeuvred her to face the other way, a position new to her. She had allowed herself to really let go, to concentrate only on the lovely hardness within her and to not care about how she looked or sounded. Her mask only came off when she was facing him again, sat upon his lap with him as deep as ever. She couldn’t stop smiling - it was difficult to purse her lips for long enough to kiss him.

He finished inside her when she was on all fours, and she felt dirty and sexy and gorgeous in laying herself open for him like this. It was a fitting finale to the most thrilling time of her life. There weren’t many words after, but fatigue and contentment were washing over her. It was nice to just lie there in spoons, eyes closed, feeling the warm solidity of him, basking in the glow. Just for that time, he belonged to her. In the end it was she who had to go, a sudden dash to pick up the kids, the reality of normal life clattering back to mind. There was barely time to kiss him goodbye, to thank him and then to ramble on about how inappropriate it was to thank anyone for sex, all the time watching his smile spread. She didn’t know if this was it: the one and only time. It should have been. She should have been content, glad that it was better than she’d hoped and not a pitiful mess to rue endlessly. But humans are a greedy species and they seldom know when to stop.

I Spy

So what the fuck-a-doodle-doo was that sly cow Nesta doing coming out of Hunter’s house? Were those furtive glances she was giving in the direction of the other houses? And what was that big smile all about now she thought she was safe? Eva almost decided to go out there and confront her neighbour, but she could only imagine it leading to her taking off her jacket and laying into the sneaky redhead. That wouldn’t go down well. Not with Hunter, who irrationally thought Nesta to be some kind of muse of humour, or something - someone to hold dear.

Straws were mounting up on the donkey’s back and this might well be the final one. Worst still, this was the first Monday Eva had been off for ages and it was only coincidence that she had gone into her kitchen for a mug of tea at that particular moment. Who knew how often these visits had gone on? If she hadn’t taken leave that week to help finish her book she might never have seen this. The jealousy billowed, heading towards rage. She almost spat into the sink. You know, here she was cutting her sexual rations down to almost nil: just the two husbands very occasionally, plus the pink-haired girlfriend of course, and maybe a random girl here and there - all of it for him - and that sneaky ginger bitch was trying to get in there before she did! It wasn’t going to wash, no way. It really was the most hu-fucking-mungous liberty!

She had been on a roll as well. The writing had really been flowing. Just that one sighting had made her dry up. She had been right in the groove and she needed to be because she was up against it. Things had gone even quicker than she’d hoped. She’d put feelers out there based on the success of her current novel and not one but two publishers had bitten. Add those to the one she was currently with and she had herself the makings of a fight to get her signature, just as she’d envisaged. Figures to tempt had already been bandied about and they were large ones. The trouble was, the new novel had only been little more than a detailed synopsis back then, so she needed to produce a nicely fleshed-out first draft to please the would-be money-givers. Then, once the deal was done, she could relax and produce the final draft in good time. She had promised the first draft by the end of the week. Not being absolutely sure of the reaction to this was the only thing stopping her from marching down to Hunter’s right now and laying down the law.

It would have to be coercion: blackmail, essentially. That was a sobering thought. A girl with her looks shouldn’t need to employ such tactics. He had moved in as the last summer was fading. Now a new one was nearly upon them. She had spoken to him that first day he came, made him aware of her. In all that time, despite her thinking something between them was inevitable, now that she wanted to force his hand she was no closer to her goal than after that first meeting. There was no time-line of their growing relationship. For most would-be lovers it was about eyes meeting across a crowded room. It was all coy smiles and batted eyelashes; wining and dining; thrilling late night phone chats; roses delivered to your door. It was a build to a moment when bed was the obvious next step. It struck her that she had never known romance in all her life. For her it had always been about a spur of the moment choosing, of seeing someone she liked and assenting to let them adore her. That was just plain sad.

So, with him, there was no place to pick up from, no suggestion made to agree to, no understanding. Nesta, the bitch, would have such things. Just going round for an innocent afternoon visit would have spurned some looks, some innuendo. It was inevitable between two attractive people. From these little signs big things soon grew, until suddenly Nesta would find herself on all fours, her hair being pulled back as the man of every girl’s dreams spanked and fucked her beautifully. The point was, without such groundwork, you were effectively cold-calling on the sex front. It would have to mushroom out of nowhere. It was feasible with someone you had just met but when you had known someone for months and still nothing had developed between you, it was, in fact, distinctly un-inevitable that anything then would.

She slapped her fingers down hard on the keyboard and pushed back from her desk. It was pointless trying to force it when her head was full of other things. The words wouldn’t come so fuck it. Fuck the book and fuck everything. Imagine going through life without ever being swept off your feet - someone as good-looking as her, as creative and as free-spirited. She deserved such pleasures, didn’t she? Not by anyone either, but by the very best. Imagine not a single romantic adventure to pound the heart, to look back upon and cherish. Imagine missing out on the seat-of-the-pants, breath-stopping thrill of him. It couldn’t happen. It was against all known laws of fairness. How the hell, after nearly a year of knowing him, was she not able to simply go down there and give him that one whispered sentence, that single look, to spark the pent-up release of passion between them?

As ever it was a form of anger that drove her to act, just like that seething desire for power over the husbands she seduced. She went there feeling slighted and confrontational, marching down in the light of the early evening, not caring who saw her, actually hoping that everyone would. The jealousy would stop her being smooth or charming. It would be about stinging him into action. Since the indignation that made her spring from her chair and head for the front door still gripped her, it would be that which formed her plan of action. She wasn’t feeling subtle. Just knowing he’d spent the day with Nesta schmoozing all over him was enough to stop her wanting to do the same. There was more than one way to skin a cat.

She was going to ring the doorbell but then chose the letterbox instead, knowing the clatter would be more audible around the street and might attract more witnesses. He’d want to get her inside, quick sharp. He took time to answer but she knew he was there. She even sensed he was there behind the door, checking her out through the spy-hole, wondering if he might successfully pretend to be out. That just got her insides scrunching even more. She rapped at the letterbox again and while the noise was still echoing around the houses he had opened the door.

‘Eva,’ he said by way of greeting, looking cautious or possibly even mildly annoyed. She managed a big smile but knew vehemence would drive her tongue until she got everything off her chest. He would see the fire in her eyes.

‘I’m looking for advice, actually,’ she said, launching straight in, her voice more strident than she wanted. ‘I bet you didn’t know I was rather a successful writer of erotic novels, but then you have never taken any trouble to find out anything about me. Well, it’s true, and I’m about to become a household name. I’m writing the book that puts all others of the genre in the shade.’

She paused to give him time to react but his face hadn’t changed. There was no smile, maybe even a look of disinterest. He was just stood there with arms folded, seemingly not even about to invite her in, the fucking bastard.

‘That’s great news,’ he eventually said, but only because he was obliged to fill the silence.

‘Yes, well, as I’m going to be rich and famous I thought I needed to cultivate some kind of image, which is where you come in. I was wondering, would it be better to be seen as sophisticated but secretive - you know, all moody black and white photos; a beauty to covet? One who knew exactly what she was writing about because her lover happened to be the most gorgeous, charming, older man? Or should I be a known as a garish minx, a man-eater, a seducer of husbands?’ She flashed another naughty smile and waited for a response but he remained largely unmoved, frowning and shaking his head a little, as if only barely grasping her insinuation. She pressed on. ‘Of course, images are only borne out by reality. There are bound to be articles in the press. If I was the secretive sophisticate then I could give little or nothing away, but if I were the garish minx then all the juicy details would have to be known: names, places, that sort of thing. It could be messy but it would certainly spark the most publicity and, as they say, all publicity is good publicity, is it not?’

There it was, unsubtly put on a plate for him to digest. He stayed quiet, chewing gently on his bottom lip, looking straight at her, the frown still very evident. She knew the penny had dropped.

‘Why would you want to give names?’ he said, eyes narrowing.

‘I wouldn’t, but you know what the press are like - how persistent, how much they tempt with financial rewards. And if I’m going for that image, I’d have to go the whole hog. If I’d not done the whole street they’d wonder why. So I might have to see about that neighbour of yours after all.’ She turned towards Number Eight and raised her voice as she said it, hoping to finally make him drag her inside to shut her up. The thought of bedding the big-footed nerd wasn’t actually that appealing right now but it was simply a case of bringing all her guns to bear. Hunter didn’t move, although she saw him quickly scan the street for signs of eavesdroppers. Invite me in, you delicious bastard, she thought, and let’s get this contract sealed between us.

‘Of course,’ she continued, ‘if I had my gorgeous older man, then I could be happy with him. He would know that I’ve given up all others while I’ve been waiting for him. He would soon realise that the two of us are exactly suited. We would make fabulous lovers. We would have no ties, no kids. We would only ever have great times - bike trips and other wild adventures. We would be rich and comfortable together. He would paint, I would write, and we would live in perfect harmony for as long as we wanted.’

‘What, amongst these people and all those secrets?’

‘Why not? It would remind him of how much better they were together than apart.’

‘And what if this older man couldn’t see the light?’

He was holding out, even now. Did he want her to beg? He was stood there in the doorway, arms folded, showing no sign of letting her in. He must be able to see reason. She had even managed to convince herself, having spoken her vision out loud. Once he was with her she would make him see. She would find out what made him tick, just like she always did. He would think her the best lover he had ever had, one to never let go. She could spend a couple of years with him, or even more if she didn’t get bored, flaunting him and her new success, revelling in the neighbour’s bitter envy. The two of them would live a life of riches, thrills and dirty fabulous fucking. There was no down side whatsoever, so why hadn’t he yet given in to her? She felt jittery having smelled triumph so close. There was an itching wet heat between her thighs crying out for attention, brought on by a combination of anticipation and the power trip from having him so far over a barrel. Yet still he would not yield, always wanting to be the master. Well, he could win this battle but he must have known the war was over, and now was no time to show mercy.

‘Look, Hunter, it’s simple: I’m going to submit my novel this week. After that the ball is going to be rolling and I might have little control over it. If you want to have any input into what kind of media image I’m to use, you just let me know. If not, well, don’t say I didn’t warn you. Personally the image of home-wrecking minx sounds pretty good fun to me, but maybe that’s because I’m getting a little frustrated waiting for you. I’m feeling a little under-appreciated right now. Still, I might easily be persuaded that a life of secrecy is much better, when spent with the right person. Incidentally, talking of secrets, I saw Nesta coming out of here this afternoon. She’s a nice girl, isn’t she? I really like her. It would be terrible if anyone was to find out she was married to such a dirty, cheating pervert, don’t you think? So, you think on that and then come see me at the weekend. You could wish me luck with my book.’

She managed a parting smile but stopped herself short of blowing a patronising kiss. She tried to depart with as much gusto as she could, holding her head high and her breath in, until finally she heard the door shut behind her. She was shaking - part nerves, part anger, part frustration. There was no going back. It was blackmail pure and simple, but hopefully he would see that it was a good kind of blackmail. It was nothing they couldn’t immediately joke about, once they were together. He could give her a rough, really dirty first fucking to reassert himself, and then they would be friends again, the closest of the close. He should see sense because he had everything to gain from it. If not, then she had no other option than to go through with her threat. Her ego would stand no less.

A part of her was not convinced she had done enough, and this filled her with spite and nastiness. If she couldn’t have him then no one could - certainly no redheaded bitches who had also refused her. He better play ball or she would blow the whole thing apart, shatter the happy family charade. She would bag the nerd at Number Eight just in time to light the fuse and let it blow, so no one was left unscathed. In fact, she would do it anyway, this Friday, whilst the girls were all out, just as a pre-emptive measure. It was no skin off her nose now.

It would be fun watching it all go up, remaining untouchable through it all; rich, successful and feted, scared of none of them. She could leave them behind whenever she wanted and all they would have left is the chance to sell their miserable stories, thus doing her publicity for her. It would only make her stronger. As for Hunter, he could watch and know he could have stopped it. Let him live with that. It was up to him now, and she was only prepared to give him until the week was up. She wanted him above anyone, ever. It didn’t matter that it would be a relationship built on nothing. All that sentimentality nonsense could come after, if necessary.

Seriously, he had better do the right thing because she was more than ready to start smashing things up now. She was fifteen years his junior, funnier than Ginger Bitch, better-looking even than Roni and with an indisputably better arse, way sexier than Maria. She was far more entertaining and interesting than all of them put together. What the hell could he want more than her? They were just personality-free, visionless nobodies, with nothing going on in their lives but children or work or both. What did they offer? Even their husbands were bored of them, the people supposed to love them above all! If he didn’t give in then she would set it all alight and walk away with her middle finger held high. There might be other Hunters wherever she ended up. She would forget him but no one would ever forget her. No neighbourhood would ever have seen the like of her. It would be the start of her legend.

She pulled her phone out of her jeans and rang the pink-haired girlfriend.

‘Get your clothes off, have a shower and get that sweet backside of yours covered in baby oil,’ she said. ‘I’m coming to get you, and it’s going to hurt.’

Knowing

It took about ten minutes of conversation and then Roni saw it, as plain as day. Hunter was often popped into conversations at some point. All of them seemed incapable of not mentioning him whenever possible. Today though, with just the two of them, Nesta was going on about him even more than normal. There was a sparkle in her eyes too. It was a subtle change to other times. Others, who didn’t know her so well, might not have spotted it. Before, it had all been about fanciful imaginings. This, however, was about joyous recollection, of looking back on one’s memories, of having something concrete and wonderful and real to draw upon. There had been intimacy between her best friend and the newest neighbour; that was the only possible conclusion.

Nesta wasn’t trying to make it obvious. She was trying to talk about him in a matter of fact way, at times even being mildly disparaging. But this was just a throw-you-off-the-scent tactic. There was that gleam every now and then which was probably unintentional, her ego gaining control just momentarily, wanting to be boastful. Roni felt quite proud herself, knowing her friend so well she could spot these tell-tale signs. What she didn’t feel was shock. There was something else, something unsettling, but it wasn’t alarm or disappointment or disgust. It might have been at least partially surprise, since Nesta was generally so on the level, so dedicated to her family. However, there was no sense of loss, no feeling that Nesta had let herself and everyone else down.

Perhaps this was because Roni realised the power of Hunter was bound to strike one of them. Perhaps because she could see the connection between him and her best friend, the way it had grown and animated her. Some of this joy Roni had even absorbed, by osmosis, and with it came the desire, the flood of private rude contemplations beyond anything dreamed of before. Also, there was the feeling of retribution gained. Husbands historically cheated on their wives with impunity. That seemed to be a fact wherever and whenever you were in this world. Perhaps for the sake of equality all women should feel this same lack of guilt, don those same moral blinkers. If the female equivalent of Hunter had turned up in their street, how many of the husbands would have made a beeline for her bed, given half the chance?

Not that she had any solid proof of wrongdoing, Roni had noted the way Nesta’s husband acted around Eva, and how Eva reacted back. It was just little things, little looks here and there. The husband crawled and flattered around Eva, which he wouldn’t have done if he thought there was nothing in it for him. Then there was the touching - maybe just the odd hesitant fingertips, but husbands don’t touch pretty single females unless there is some established familiarity, and simply being a neighbour did not constitute that. If Roni was forced to make wild declarations, she would suggest that Eva was not the lesbian she made out and that Mr Nesta already knew this.

It was not something Roni would ever share with anyone. That was one hell of an applecart to upset! It wasn’t just him either. She could see how all of them looked at her, the hunger. They would do it in an instant if they could. Maybe they had. Even her husband, usually so trustworthy, liked to sidle up and joke with her. He did it on instinct, forgetting he could be observed. Roni had seen the shoulder to shoulder nudges and other body language that indicated familiarity.

The boundaries just didn’t exist these days, but the freedoms most certainly did. Temptation was never far away and humans have such little resilience. The sexes mixed all the time without modern society having a massive intake of breath. There were texts and social network sites and emails; so many ways to interact and to be secretive. It was there on a plate and even those who you wouldn’t think capable of infidelity could be drawn in. She, of all people, had considered the ease and the thrill of it. That’s why she couldn’t be shocked that Nesta had succumbed to the sin. No, it definitely wasn’t shock she could feel in the pit of her stomach, nor disappointment. So what was it?

Then something overtook Roni. Normally she was the soul of discretion, the least likely to gossip. But she needed this out there, not for reasons of malice or self-righteousness but because she wanted to share in the excitement of it. That would doubtless be as close as she would get to experiencing it for herself. She almost got away with it, only giving in just as Nesta was about to leave. She stunned herself with what she blurted out almost as much as she stunned her friend.

‘So, are you going to tell me all about how you slept with Hunter?’

The colour momentarily drained from Nesta’s face only to be quickly brought back with a rush of blood that turned her cheeks crimson. ‘How did you know? Is it that obvious?’

Sadly, it was. Her friend just wouldn’t have it in her to brazen such things out. Only those with hard hearts could carry such things off. So the fuse was already lit and the bomb primed to go off. The only question was when.

‘I didn’t really know, until then. I don’t expect you to tell me anything. I know it’s private.’

Nesta looked too shell-shocked to discuss anything in detail. ‘I suppose you think me horrible now?’ she said. Suddenly that crystallised exactly what Roni felt about it all - an emotion so generally alien to her that she hadn’t been able to recognise it before. It was a measure of how much she had changed since their new neighbour moved in that she could think of sharing her thoughts.

‘No. All I feel is jealousy. The strange thing is I don’t know who I feel most jealous of: you, or him.’

Her best friend stared at her for many moments, chewing on her lip as she processed that last statement, her cheeks still flushed. ‘Well,’ she said, just before she turned away. ‘We can’t have you feeling jealous, can we?’

Roni watched her friend hurry back home. She closed the door, her heart pounding. It was probably just something to say, a light-hearted tease carrying more implications than were meant. Still, it was one of the most promising things Roni had ever heard, one of the most exciting too. It felt like the roof had come off her house, like the front had just opened up to reveal a land of opportunity. It would pass, for sure. The next time it would all have been forgotten and she certainly didn’t have the guts to prompt any reminders, but for now it was all she wanted to think about, however wrong it was.

The Crush

It was a week until Nesta saw him next. It wasn’t about either one avoiding the other. It was simply a case of everyday life and opportunity. It was fair to say that any emotional turmoil she might have predicted before stepping off the edge of fidelity and falling into the world of cheats was infinitesimally underestimated. Her heart no longer seemed to have a normal rhythm, paced now by elation, by stomach-scrunching moments of guilt, or by cold, sweeping rushes of panic. Nothing though, neither the remorse nor the fright of being found out, could stop the drive to want to see him again.

Before, there had at least been moments when her thoughts weren’t consumed by him and day to day life could continue. Now, everything was a mental kaleidoscope. Sometimes she could barely function at all - her, the person many others thought the epitome of sensible. Those same people would almost certainly never have described her as weak, or reckless, or selfish, yet here she was proving them wrong. Worst of all, the shame of this could not outweigh her pride. She pushed aside the dark thoughts with indulgent images of the two of them together on some long deserted beach, outside his delightful cottage on that exotically-named wild island - that place she had needed to look up on the internet to assure herself it really existed, since it sounded so fancifully romantic.

It could never happen, of course. No matter how wonderful the images or how intricate the scenarios developed around them, in reality it could never happen. She had a family for a start. The complexities and heartache of deconstructing this were too awful to begin to contemplate, nor did she want to. She wasn’t right for him either. The attraction was mutual, the sense of humour shared, but she didn’t have his vision on life, or his freedom of spirit. It made her heart sing that he had chosen her above the legion of others he could pick from, but she knew part of the reason was because she was safe - a wife and mother unable to make any commitments outside of a set domestic situation, however caught up she was in the excitement of a fling.

Maybe if she had been single they could have made it work. She liked to think so. She could have been the one to let him find his bearings within a relationship again, to help him learn to share lives. It would take time and time was something they didn’t have between them. Just eight months was all that had passed since his arrival. It wasn’t enough. No matter how hard you fall, the strength between you is only ever borne out by time.

You cannot just swan off to far flung places with someone you haven’t yet known for three full seasons, no matter that you are fully aware you only have one life to live and are convinced that they will be the best thing in it. You have to know them, to have a shared history, to even get to a point when some of the original excitement has worn off, to be replaced by predictability. She didn’t know Hunter at all, even now he had been inside her. She remembered all he had said about knowing people but it didn’t now feel solid enough. If he just ignored her next time he saw her, if he turned out to be a liar or the Manipulator Supreme, she couldn’t honestly say it wasn’t the last thing she expected. She only had gut feelings and hope, not assurances, that he liked her anywhere near as much as she liked him. She couldn’t claim to innately know his true feelings because she simply didn’t know him that well.

It’s not enough to simply recognise their scent, or know which smile and laugh they use at given times. These are the peripheral things, not the ones that bind you forever. They are heart-capturers - quickly learnt and soon adored but with no substance. Only time can breed trust, that most important of qualities when giving your heart away. Yet here she was behaving as the most untrustworthy of all. It was horrible knowing you were a cheat, but more withering still was the fact that it didn’t instantly cure her desire for more. She still wanted to see him.

She had vague notions of telling him it had to be a one-off, but this instantly changed to naughty images of him stripping her and securing her wrists. She couldn’t recognise the rationale that had let her slip so easily towards infidelity. She knew nothing could come of it yet still she had not done more to resist. Her shameful lack of moral fibre seemed somehow unfeminine, done with an impunity you would expect more from a man - not her husband because she was sure he wasn’t capable of such low acts, but the male of the species in general. That’s what burned her most: the thought that a woman should know better, should be able to fend off the temptation. She had committed an act merely frivolous and selfish, unpicking the close weave of all those years with her husband and partner in an instant, done something no words could justify.

She met him at his. He hadn’t snuck out which meant at least he wasn’t trying to evade this next opportunity. He hadn’t come to hers but then he would know a wife would never cheat in her own home, most particularly in her own bed, unless she truly hated her husband. He gave her a warm smile but there was something other than humour or gladness in his eyes - caution, perhaps - and the door wasn’t immediately flung open to give her quick, sneaky entry. He showed her into the lounge. In normal circumstances this is what most polite humans would do: take you to the most comfortable room in the house. Here it seemed like a coldness, a deliberate distancing from the rooms were the action could take place, the one least secret. The butterflies increased. They had been fluttering because of what he might do but now they went mad at the thought of what he was planning not to do.

She tried to guess what his excuse would be, so that she could form a counter-argument. She couldn’t. She didn’t know what went on in his head in all those hours he wasn’t with her. They existed almost exclusively apart. Despite their brief closeness they were essentially remote from one another. His life went on when she was not around. She didn’t have to mean anything to him when she was not at his side. It didn’t matter about all the thoughts, the endless hours he had been with her in mind at least. These could not be telepathically transmitted. They did not mean togetherness. What went on in her head was a replaying of events morphing into embellished scenarios of shared times. It was more fiction than fact; dreams rather than reality. It was an imagined picture of good times and exciting secrets and harmless fun.

‘I have to leave,’ he said, before she could get cosy beside him. ‘I have put my house on the market today, to either sell or rent, whichever proves easiest. Either way, in one month I will be gone.’

‘Oh,’ she replied, trying to sound normal, although it felt like her chest was being crushed. ‘I was that bad, was I?’

He gave a little laugh but looked down at his hands. ‘Eva saw you coming out of my house last week. She assumes we were up to no good.’

The lurch inside was instant, followed by the cold sweep from the top of her head down. It was different from the shock of his announcement. It was the sickening, bowel-loosening alarm of being found out. Eva of all people! That reckless, vindictive witch!

‘So I’m not allowed to visit my neighbours now?’ She sounded too self-righteous, considering they both knew the truth.

‘She has a big mouth. Careless words cost lives.’

‘And you think I’d just have to admit to it? There could be any number of reasons I came and saw you.’ She was sounding edgy and indignant, although in her head she already knew it was over. If even the hint was given all eyes would be upon them. The scrutiny would make them have to do the opposite, to avoid each other, just to give the reverse impression. It seemed massively unfair. They hadn’t actually been caught in the act but just that one sighting, that one suspicion raised in the one person who would just love to blow it into something massive and damaging, and it was over.

‘You shouldn’t tell lies,’ he said. ‘They always get found out and that just doubles the sin. Anyway, it’s more complicated than that. Eva rather joyously confessed to me that she has slept with all the husbands in this street, on numerous occasions, barring one. She plans to use all her womanly charms to rectify that one oversight. I would suggest that remaining husband is far from safe with her.’

This revelation was not as shocking as it would have been had Nesta not seen Eva coming bare-bottomed from Number Five that night. That she wasn’t a lesbian was already proved, and if she could seduce that one husband then she could seduce any of them. The only mystery was, having had undoubtedly the best-looking, probably the nicest husband in the street, why had she felt the need to bag the others? Still, Eva really was a heartless, destructive bitch, so she probably just did it to cause the maximum trouble. Then the guilt hit in spades. The instant assumption had been that her husband was the one referred to. It never even crossed her mind otherwise. She just knew he would never do such things, and yet she had done this to him.

‘What makes you think the husband will give into her? Not every man is a cheat,’ she said. Then the realisation dawned, the secret Eva could use to stir up trouble, to make it seem like an act of revenge rather than betrayal. ‘I see. You think she will use her presumption, reveal her little secret about us as a bargaining tool, if flashing her tits doesn’t work.’

‘I don’t think there is anything she wouldn’t do to get her way, regardless of the cost to others.’

‘And even if she doesn’t get her way she will ensure she spreads her rumours. So what does she gain from doing this? What does she want from us?’

‘Nothing, she just wants the joy of causing trouble. She plans to do it for sheer spite, although she did hint that she might reconsider if she had other people to aim for, namely me. I think she is more than a bit annoyed that I haven’t fallen for her.’

It was nice to hear from the horse’s mouth that Eva hadn’t got her teeth into him. It filled Nesta briefly with a sense of triumph, although there was still one glaring hole in his plan. ‘So how does your leaving solve things? It gets you out of her clutches but it doesn’t leave the remaining husband safe. It doesn’t stop her spreading her gossip.’

‘That’s why I am going to take her with me. I’ve got another house and enough money to get by so it’s easy for me. I’ve told her that in one month I am leaving and if she wants to be with me then she has to leave too. It gives her just enough time to hand in her notice at work - which apparently she was going to do anyway - and to make arrangements with her house and the contents. It is the only way to keep everyone safe. There will still be lots of secrets left in this street, but the one most likely to spill them will have gone. You can all go back to normal again.’

‘But it means you will be with her!’ Nesta gave him a little punch in mock anger, but inside she really did feel the jolt of the thought of him with anyone other than herself.

‘Don’t worry. She will drop me once she realises I’m just a boring old artist who likes peace and quiet and keeping himself to himself. I told her she could be with me. I didn’t say anything about sleeping with me. The main thing is, once she is gone she can’t come back.’

Nesta smiled but it was the unsaid parts of his plan that caused her heart to sink. He would have to play along with Eva at least for a little, just to make sure. He would take her to that cottage on the desert island and then she would never want to leave. If it was just about getting her out, he could have done so and then come straight back to them and pick up where he had left off, but he wasn’t going to. He was part of the secret, so to protect Nesta he had to go and stay gone. She might never see him again.

All because her husband hadn’t got himself seduced! Typical of him to be so unforthcoming when it came to matters of sex. All the others probably jumped at the chance. Suddenly, terribly, it seemed like a good trade-off: wishing her husband was a cheat so that she could be with Hunter without a guilty conscience. The break-up of the family home was another matter but that had never been part of the fantasy. Of course, Hunter hadn’t actually named her husband, so it was only assumption that he was the innocent party referred to. She could ask outright, since by his sworn oath Hunter would not lie to her, although in her heart of hearts she already knew the answer and didn’t really want to hear it out loud, as this would only compound her remorse and rubber-stamp the need to put Hunter’s plan into action.

‘So there is no way she could be bluffing, just to get you into bed?’ she said, clutching at straws, trying to keep something alive when she knew she shouldn’t.

‘While either of us is still here the danger will exist.’

‘And this one she is after, the one she hasn’t yet seduced. My assumption, since you’ve told me about it, is that it is my husband.’

He didn’t look at her. He seemed to know that a straight affirmation would be like a dagger to her heart. ‘You can see why I have to go and take her with me, can’t you?’ he finally said.

Nesta should have been thankful. Just that one lurching gut-reaction to hearing that Eva had spotted her leaving his house should have told her that this was something she did not want in her life. She should have been glad that the regret had not come when it was already way too late. She would have to bury her betrayal and make up for it secretly, in any way she could. She should make sure she was as kind and compassionate as her husband always was to her, and never give any hint that this was down to guilt. At the moment though, all she could feel was sadness. It was like she was losing everything. She leant into him, resigned, with her head on his shoulder, clutching at his hand.

‘It’s a bad day all round,’ she said. ‘I was meant to book a spa day for me and Roni. We treat ourselves once a year, just the two of us. They send us vouchers. Anyway, I’ve had other things, other people on my mind, and I forgot to do it until this morning. Now they are all booked up, which they were bound to be at a fortnight’s notice at this time of the year, which means Roni’s not going to be best pleased. She knows about us too, by the way. I didn’t tell her - I swear. She just guessed. I’m clearly not very good at this keeping secrets lark. She wouldn’t ever let on to anyone. I think she is actually quite pleased for me. She even said she felt jealous - of the both of us! That shocked me a little. Roni is the last person to be so forward. I put such things down to the Hunter Effect. You seem to have turned all of us into hussies!’

He smiled, as always. ‘Don’t worry about your trip, I’ll sort something. I have contacts in the spa world. We can’t have you two girls missing your yearly fun. Give me the date and consider it arranged.’

‘Thank you, strange Ex-Army Man Who Randomly Has Friends High Up in the Health Resort Business, but we get our day at greatly discounted prices and with lots of things thrown in. No offence, but I don’t think you have the negotiation skills to get it at a price I’m willing to pay.’

‘Who said anything about payment? Think of it as a treat, a going-away present for my two favourite neighbours.’

‘Going away presents are meant to be for the ones going, not the ones staying.’

‘Ah, well, maybe I was planning to get my present by dropping in on the two of you whilst you were there.’

‘Hunter!’

She slapped him again but giggled too. The idea warmed her, even made her forget her guilt, just like that. She doubted his intent to actually show up but then again he did live a life in which things just happened. Everything seemed out of the ordinary and yet was achieved with apparent ease - like they do within lies, although there could be no reason for him to need to bullshit his way through life. He just did things almost by magic, like solving this threat to her marriage by upping sticks and removing the danger, as if it was just a trivial finger-click rather than an enforced sea change. Like learning to become a hypnotist in order to get oneself out of jail, or like teaching yourself whilst locked up to be an artist, to facilitate a whole new career once you were free.

‘Why were you in prison?’ she asked. ‘I know I said I wouldn’t pry about your past but I think I ought to know, since you’ve now ravished me.’

She felt his chest move beneath her with silent laughter.

‘You really want to know? It’s not that exciting, I’m afraid. I used to be employed by a tribal leader as security - part of a very small private army which was a little better skilled than his own army. It was not a nice job but back then I wasn’t far short of hating myself and the world in general, so I thought it would be a good nihilistic opportunity to live and almost certainly die by the sword. One day I was driven over to the camp of a neighbouring warlord, to deliver a bag. I didn’t know why I was sent or what I was taking. I discovered when I got there that the son of my employer had tried to double-cross this warlord during an arms deal. Money had been stolen and people had got shot. To avoid further bloodshed, my employer had sent me along with a bag full of compensatory diamonds. The warlord had also demanded the son’s head, but my employer drew the line there, sending me as the sacrifice instead, since European mercenaries were worth a lot to their paymasters.

‘Fortunately, I was carrying my passport with some I.D. in it. I always did this in case I had to cut and run at any time. I also used to carry some jewels as currency. We mainly took payment in jewels or gold as they were easier to bury, and unguarded banknotes had a habit of being stolen in camp. Like I said - it wasn’t a hotbed of morality out there. Anyway, he found my jewels, so this was a bit extra compensation to confiscate, something to buy my life with. Because he found my passport and I.D., including my address and a photo of my wife, the warlord thought he could ransom me back to my family for big bucks. That was the only reason he didn’t kill me immediately. He didn’t know there was no one at my home anymore, nor did I have much family. He put me in prison and kept me there, waiting for his ransom to arrive. He assumed my wife needed time to raise the money, which he just kept adding to. Inflation, he called it. He wasn’t bothered. He’d already got more back than he had lost, and he liked having the kudos of keeping someone with my military background under lock and key. He also liked that I could teach him to win at poker, and he especially liked it when he thought I could exorcise all his evil spirits. So in jail I stayed, indefinitely.’

‘But you hadn’t done anything wrong!’

‘Yes I had. Just being there was wrong.’

‘You must have hated him more every single day.’

‘Not really. Without him I would almost certainly be dead now. He helped alter my whole outlook on life. He provided the optimism. The missionary’s books provided the inspiration and the guidance but he provided the inducement and the time to allow it to happen. Plus he made me very rich.’

‘And how, pray, did he do that?’

‘He gave me his personal fortune. As well as bringing me my passport and weapons and a Land Rover on the day I escaped, I also convinced him to bring me the contents of his safe. Warlords always have lots of diamonds stashed away. It’s the First Law of Warlording. It’s how they do business. I don’t know why they keep doing what they are doing, when they could go anywhere and be rich men, but they always want more. Still, it was surprisingly easy to make him part with them. It rather made a mockery of all the perilous things I’d done to earn a living up to that point. I made off with his stash, hiding the stones up in the spine of my book on art. I laid low for a while, and then flew back home via Amsterdam, boldly carrying my book through customs. I sold the diamonds there and banked the cash. They didn’t give me the best price but it still had a lot of noughts in it. So that’s me: a killer, a convict, a brain-washer, a thief, and a diamond smuggler.’

‘Yes,’ she smiled up at him, ‘but you’re the nicest one that I know.’

She reached up and kissed him. It seemed too surreal to attach any of this badness to him. He was just too nice a guy. It was a lot easier to close one’s eyes and imagine him exactly as you wanted him. Better still to imagine him not having to leave at all. She shouldn’t have compounded her sin but as soon as she was kissing him the guilt evaporated. Later it would hurtle back for sure, but for now the temptation was simply too much to overcome. She thought for one moment he was holding back, allowing her time to recoup her senses. But it was her infidelity, not his, and she chose to press home her desire. She had her climax that day riding him, facing out towards her street, kissing him and gripping his hair as she groaned and writhed, with only the half-closed blinds to prevent her from being seen. It was reckless, but in the moment such things never count for anything.

Dirty

The news hit Maria hard. It was only offset by the fact that her husband seemed to be taking a renewed interest in her these days. If she didn’t know better she would think it was because he wasn’t getting it elsewhere. The day in question was seldom out of her mind, blending with all the other fantasies Hunter had inspired. Still she wasn’t entirely sure it hadn’t been a particularly lucid dream. Could someone really have the balls to sneak into her house wearing a balaclava, and fuck her hard while her husband lay in bed upstairs? You could never tell anyone about it - no one would believe it.

Real or otherwise, it had marginally tempered her need to hide away and play with herself. Now she wanted the real thing. His departure threatened the envisioned future of a succession of ever ruder, ever more dangerous fucks, until she was openly doing it to taunt her husband; showing him how it should be done; giving him a taste of his own medicine. Perhaps Hunter’s going would save her from this. She loved her husband for a reason - even if these were ones that other women might not understand. Regardless of his many flaws, the hateable side to him, she still adored his arrogance, his courage, his seediness. With Hunter gone there would be no one else around to touch him. To lose him would be to lose her own heartbeat.

However, she needed to revel in this dark side of her mate. She needed to be the one feeling the benefits of it. To do that, he had to accept that she was not some meek housewife, some paragon of virtue for him to hold up as untouchable whilst he tried to sully everyone else’s missus. She was not going to sacrifice her own excitement so that he could present her as the perfect, clean-minded wife - and proved his point by needing to get his filthier kicks from puttanas elsewhere. How insulting was that? He would have to get it from home or face the consequences. And she was no longer prepared to be his receptacle for a quick release. He would have to indulge her ruder side, accept it and enjoy it. He would have to learn once more how to make dirty love to her the way she wanted it. Time and privacy constraints might play a part but she was prepared to allow quality to override quantity. She could still use her fingers, when the urge got the better of her.

She would no more stay waiting in vain. Hunter had released the slut in her. Her husband would either have to pander to that or face driving her elsewhere to sate her lusts. She was quite prepared to enjoy the thrill of sexting all day with random loveless bastards, and having meaningless couplings that gave her a sneaky hour of naughty bliss, conscience-free. If she was not going to be number one in her husband’s mind, she would seek others who would treat her the way he used to, in the days he lusted after Maria, the Dirty Girl. For years she had let her husband have his way. Now it was time he let her have hers.

Thunderstorm

Right from the start Bethan knew something had to happen that day. The air was charged with it. She had her mum take the kids off her hands first thing, her excuse being an exaggeration of the sickness she felt in her belly, although she knew this was more likely caused by foreboding rather than any virus. The early heatwave was still upon them, sticky and airless, feeling way more like high summer than late spring. A storm was fast gathering. The past few days had been clear but that morning was dense and muggy, causing the sweat to leach into even the thinnest coverings. It made her edgy and restless. It addled her thoughts and threatened a headache to add to the feeling of mild nausea. It stirred her up so much that it seemed the only way to avoid the irritation and the swelter was to go out, even though she knew this was taking her away from safety and right into danger’s domain. Almost the moment she set foot outside, the rail began to fall: intermittent, fat, wet blobs of it.

She should have turned and gone straight back inside, but something propelled her onwards. The drops would only increase from now on. There would be no escaping the downpour when it finally broke. She hastened past Hunter’s drive and garden, almost sure he was watching her from within. If she could possibly concentrate she knew he’d be revealed by the colours of his aura - usually best picked up in one’s periphery - showing behind the windows, between the slats of his blinds. Always watching over her, always poised to strike: that’s what she had relied upon.

Yesterday’s news had hit her like a train, knocking all the breath, all the hope right out of her. It was so quick. Before that she had been feeling in control. The confidence was there and with it had come happiness. She had been like a completely different person and others had said the same. Even her husband had renewed interest in her, treating like he used to when they were courting, seemingly finding her attractive again. So strong had she become, she was able to resist rather than simply capitulate on his terms, allowing herself time to decide what was right for her and her girls. It was the first time she had felt any sense of power in her relationship. Hunter was her parachute in all this, silently underpinning her strength just by being there, and now he was to go.

His leaving wouldn’t instantly add on all the weight she had so successfully lost, nor take away the friendships she had made with her neighbours. It shouldn’t really bring back the gloom, since she never had any real contact with him anyway. In the time he had been there, apart from a few distant greetings or nods, he had only actually spoken to her once: a single line of speech that didn’t even get a reply. But what words they had been, what promise they held. Now that promise seemed set to evaporate. Whilst he was there it didn’t matter how little contact she had with him because a background presence would be enough to know her safety net was always there if things started to darken for her again.

Now the sun was nowhere to be seen and still she was hurrying away from the safety of her house. In a mocking reminder of just how superficial her life was, she realised too late her flight was totally aimless. There was no destination in mind, no target for solace or sanctuary. In the end she just habitually headed for the recreation ground, the place she ended up every day at this time with one or more of her kids in tow. She noted a few hunched figures scurrying for the shelter of homes as she ventured further from her own. They were the sensible ones. This was serious weather brewing up; anyone could feel it. The playground and adjoining fields were deserted. The roundabout was gently rotating, indicating a recent abandonment. With the drops becoming ever more persistent, Bethan headed for the far end of the field, up at the highest point, where the tree-line of the adjoining wood began. She stood beneath the canopy, her shoulders hunched, looking back down the open field in the direction of the village and the approaching storm.

The whole sky was sickening; a thick green-purple bruising to the clouds as they billowed almost visibly into thunderheads. They towered up, coming her way, bringing the flashes and the rumbles. She watched as the line of the heavier rain marched up the field towards her, in advance of the huge clouds which held the potential deluge. She could hear the fizz of the drops as they hit the dry ground, see the darkening of the bare patches of earth amid the short grass. It was building, right before her, the air getting ever heavier, ever closer. The protection from the leaves was minimal. Indeed the drops just seemed to fall larger upon her, sliding off the foliage to land cold and soak into her clothes.

All she had on was a vest top, a short, tight skirt, and a pair of light sandals. Only recently had she dared wear such things in public again. Now her confidence seemed like folly. The humidity just kept rising until she had no way of knowing where the sweating stopped and the saturation from the rain started. She could feel the drips running inside her top, the garment stuck to her skin at the shoulders. What the hell had driven her out into this? The vicious forks were snaking out with regularity now, all in her field of vision, the accompanying thunder quick behind like a rolling barrage. It was like some enormous, unstoppable, spiteful monster bearing down upon her. She had come here right into its path, right to the highest spot in the village, where its power would be strongest. There was no way home except back the way she came, straight into it. The trees might offer something but it seemed the storm was timed only to unleash its maximum power directly over where she stood, like it had always been heading inexorably to find her.

Then the acceptance and the clarity came. She emerged from the cover, just as the rain started to sheet down, instantly soaking her to the skin. She walked slowly, not hunched now, right to the centre of the field, where she stopped, her hands out to the side. Anyone stupid enough to be out there casually observing her might have thought she was bringing the storm on, silently asking it to come do its worst. It was rushing her way, still gathering its fury, the thunder cracks huge and malevolent now, enough to shake the ground and her bones. She was quaking but it might just have been the cold. Her clothes were transparent, a second skin, but inside she felt calmer than before, like she could accept the inevitable. If she tried to run it would just find her anyway, a blinding streak snaking down to pick her off. It was somehow comforting to give in to such massive potency, to stand there, acknowledge and accept its power over you.

The static raised all the hairs on her skin. The air was warmer now she was at the centre of the storm. Beneath her feet the electrical charge of the earth would be increasing - that charge she knew so well because it was around everything and showed as an aura. The charge in the atmosphere over her head would be looking for it, an equal force but with opposite polarity. All it needed was a conductive material to bridge the gap between the negative above and the positive below, and the cloud would fully unload its massive electric venom. And there she stood, waiting.

The flash was so intense her eyes clamped shut. She couldn’t tell if it was the force of this or the shock of the huge, deafening thunderclap that lifted her off the ground. She felt suddenly very hot. Her head told her she was probably on fire. Her skin felt so tight, either because of the flames sweeping over her or the static atmosphere pulling up her hairs to the extreme. It didn’t hurt though, which was a comfort. Not yet anyway. She thought it might have split her in two. Strange that there was no sign of any ill-effects - nothing sensed other than the still fizzling adrenalin in her veins. It couldn’t be this easy, could it?

She opened her eyes slowly, expecting to be confronted by a scene unimaginable to mortals. Instead it was just a field, seen through driving rain. She was not on fire; quite the opposite. The lightning had not touched her and she was still alive. However, there was an angel with her, ill-defined but there nonetheless. She blinked to help erase the flash image burned onto her retina, squinting through the downpour. There, thirty yards away and closing, was Hunter. In the background was the BMW, the driver’s door flung open to reveal the smooth black leather inside. He was hurrying to save her. The rain was so heavy he seemed almost like a ghost, but then he was in front of her, as solid and as safe as ever.

In only that short time he had been drenched, like he had just walked from the sea. Since his kind can’t hide their emotion when closing in for the kill, she’d always assumed that when he came for her his face would be a mask of lustful malevolence. Here, beneath the hair plastered to his forehead, the brow was knotted in concern. He stood looking down on her, his hands upon her arms, as if she might need holding up. He could read her mind so there was no need to tell him how she had got momentarily lost, how she needed him to deliver her before he went away.

The sky was still sparking violently and the thunder ripping the air around them but she felt no fear. He was bigger than the storm. She doubted he could look more handsome than now, this dripping hero. His mouth was slightly open and the breath came quite hard, although the eyes showed less alarm at her plight now. The water came off him in rivulets, running speedily down, his thin shirt showing pink as it clung to him. Hers must have been a forlorn figure but the distress that had so suddenly mounted had just as quickly disappeared. She knew her expression would now be that same one she always had for him, the one she tried to conceal but which always gave her away. It was one of wanting.

So they stood in the lashing rain, chests rising in unison from their matching heartbeats, their eyes fixed, hers pleading. He had come for her and now she was ready to give herself in any way that he wanted. Nothing else mattered. The peril was forgotten. She felt elated and electric and she didn’t even know that the tree behind her, under which she had so recently been sheltering, was split and still smoking from the strike. She reached out for him now and he brought her closer, holding her tight. She felt so small. Next to him like this, there was nothing that could ever touch you. And this sense of safety could never leave you, even when he had let you go, because he would always be there for you in the nick of time.

‘I was waiting for you,’ she whispered, but only in her head, since her teeth were chattering too much to let her talk out loud. It didn’t matter. He would hear the words as clear as if she had shouted them. He would see it written all over her face, her longing. Then she could see it in his eyes too, that moment when the desire defeated everything else. He bent down and kissed her on her lips, the hot passion of him at odds with the colder drops that ran down to their open mouths. He pulled away again, towering over her, regarding her once more as if to check that she was indeed ready to give herself. You do not refuse his kind.

He pulled his shirt open, the buttons coming away, and immediately the water cascaded down his bare chest, matting the dark hairs. She saw the scar, no doubt caused by a failed attempt to slay him by a jealous mortal. It was just more proof of his invincibility. Then, in one swift movement, he peeled her top up and off, discarding it beside them. It made her gasp. Her bra was already soaked through, her nipples already pushing hard at the transparent fabric. She felt no bashfulness, not even standing here, right out in the open. He held and kissed her again and she could feel the warmth from him transferring into her trembling body. She had always expected him to feel stone cold, so this was a welcome surprise. There wasn’t even any anxiety when she felt the zip at her side coming down and the skirt falling in a sodden heap at her feet. She had always known that when he took her it would be wild and reckless. She just hadn’t realised it would be quite so heart-stopping.

His hands stayed down there, him having to bend and reach down to hold her in by her behind. Then he was lifting her, just taking her weight as if she was a feather, his large hands grasping under her thighs so that she could put her legs around his waist. She wrapped herself around him, kissing him with hunger. She could feel one hand of his working quickly to release his own zip. Then he was there, the engorged tip pressing at the soaked pointlessness of her underwear, nudging the fabric away to leave her bare. She could picture how she would look: all glistening and lewd and ever ready for him.

She pulled her lips from his to whimper as he relaxed his grip from beneath and had her ease down upon him. He filled her with that one slide and her whole body trembled with the current it sent through her, his hot shaft feeling almost like it was burning her insides. She had stayed as she was, panting hard, her head stretched over to one side to lay open the point at which he would want to strike. He took the hint. As she was fully impaled he buried his mouth into her neck. She could feel some sharpness of contact, but it was only fleeting and slight, not the tearing agony she had envisaged. Maybe the sweep of bliss all across her nullified this single sensation. As she shook and came on him she could feel it flowing down over her breast; a warm flow like blood - although it might only have been the effect of the still cascading rain over her enlivened nerve endings.

He fed on her just momentarily, but it would be enough. Then his cheek was at hers and he was holding her tight as the tremors went through her in waves. Her moans had been loud and abandoned but she felt no shame, not from doing what she had done or where she had done it, right out there in the open, with only the weather to force prying eyes away. As the buzz in her head lessened she realised he was carrying her, taking her slowly away from the direction of the trees, him still rock hard inside her. Even though she had lost weight he bore her with ridiculous ease, like she was just a rag doll.

A car door was opened. He eased her up and off him - a disappointment even though he had already given her such a powerful release. She was placed down and helped into the car, and she kept her eyes shut even when she heard the sound of his door shutting and knew he was next to her. It was the blood. She didn’t want to see it all down her front, feel the shock of its loss. The journey took no time and passed in silence. She tracked it in her mind’s eye and knew he had parked in his drive. He took her out and led her by the hand, not caring that she refused to open her eyes. In they went, him guiding her up the stairs, into one room then another. She heard the sound of the sliding door and then the hiss of more water, even faster and more powerful than the rain.

Her underwear was swiftly removed and she was manoeuvred into the hot shower, the spray immediately raising the hairs all over her once more, the heat enlivening her body. He was with her again and they were kissing. She wouldn’t open her eyes and break the spell until all the red had been washed away. The double cubicle meant there was no need for crammed clumsiness but she wanted to be as close to him as possible. She wanted to be on him again. She grasped around the back of his neck and almost lifted herself into position. The shiver was no less great this time. He felt like a perfect fit, a beautiful match for her. The joy made her cry out. Before he had just stayed still inside her but this time she moved upon him, grinding and rocking against his body. His hands were braced against the back wall, so she had to cling behind his neck and grip hard at his waist with her thighs to keep herself in position.

She felt like she was truly fucking him, this most potent of specimens. It was the first time she had ever felt remotely grown up when it came to sex. All the times with her husband were like their first times as boyfriend and girlfriend; swift inexperienced fucks that lacked proficiency and real connection. She had never known closeness like this. He let her have her way for a while, never showing signs of flagging. Then he turned her, so that it was her hands braced against the wall this time, the water cascading over her back.

When the heat and steam threatened to become too much he took her from the shower and carried her to the bed, still dripping. She could open her eyes and watch him now, the water having washed everything away. She could see that he didn’t carry the lustful fury in his eyes that she had expected, more a softness and patience that mirrored his lovemaking. She was exhausted by the time he let her go and she could have slept forever, although caution meant she had to leave. Her underwear was still soaked, two tiny ineffectual scraps. Her outer clothes were presumably still discarded on the field, unrecognizable as hers since she had never worn them in public before. Imagine what would go through the minds of all who came upon them! She found herself grinning at the idea.

He gave her a shirt in crisp white cotton, one from a row of similarly fine examples in his wardrobe. She kissed him one last time, leaving him there on the bed.

‘You really are very beautiful. I hope you know this,’ he said, as she was leaving the room. She didn’t look back although the glow made her want to whoop her joy. She snuck out in just his shirt, ducking behind his car to lessen her exposure time before she reached her door. In truth she felt too strong to care if she had been seen. Let her husband know. Better lookers than him, better lovers, better people all round valued her and wanted her and she was no longer in awe of the man she married. Her true worth was reflected in these better people. Hunter had freed her. She had become her own person, in control of her destiny and able to take decisions that put her in charge of her life. He had filled her with confidence and optimism. It didn’t matter now that he would leave. He had left his venom inside her and so part of his power would always be with her. The storm had gone and the sun was out amidst blue skies, and it would stay that way from now on. One day he would come back and take her again, but that was something to keep at the back of the mind as a comforting insurance policy. She would no longer will the day.

Later, when she was lying in her bed smiling to herself, her head clear, she realised that his parting words represented only the second time he had spoken to her. He certainly always knew what to say! Then it struck her that, to this man - the one who had ruled her thoughts day and night, who had wrought every emotion from her, saved her, and even somehow allowed her to live out her most intricate fantasy - she had never, in all the nine months that she had been his neighbour, said even one single word to him. Lucky his type could always read minds.

Trophy Winner

Eva had won the prize. She never doubted that she would, even though it had taken way longer than she had anticipated. Those other bitches were nothing on her. All it had taken was raw sexuality: just great looks and the body of a minx, which just went to prove how much sexier she was than any of the others. But she already knew that. He had no choice but to fall for her, however much he wanted to keep the whip hand. Now they were off on the Great Adventure, just the two of them, leaving everyone in their dust. It was just a shame there wasn’t more time to rub the others’ noses in it.

One month was all he had given her but it was enough. In truth the timing had been perfect. She had given notice to the letting agency that same day. The first draft of her book had been submitted and well received, the publishers giving it immediate attention in order to secure the rights. She had made her deal and it was every bit as good as anticipated. A lucrative future awaited her. She had decided to celebrate by bagging the last of the street’s husbands - just a little secret to keep from Hunter and use when the time was right, just the final piece to leave the whole street in tatters when she left.

Maybe because she assumed it would be easy she hadn’t made a great effort of it. OK, yes, it was a pretty poor effort in truth, but the message had been clear even if it hadn’t been slickly delivered. She used the line about shoe size relating to big cocks, catching the Nerd unawares on his front lawn just the other day, perhaps catching herself out by acting on the spur of the moment without a clear plan of attack. He’d looked a bit dumbfounded at her blunt proposition but it must have been the biggest shock of his life, having someone like her showing interest in him. Can you believe it, he turned her down? Big Foot - he of the dorkish physique and manners, him with the lanky, nearly tit-less, slightly insane hippy wife - actually had the temerity, or more accurately the complete lack of balls, to not say yes to her.

What a useless, cheeky bastard! Of course, as soon as he’d sidled off inside, stuttering his polite refusals, with that silly face blushing crimson and that pathetic, apologetic grin, well then he would have realised what he’d just let slip through his fingers. Well, too late! Yes, she was perfectly aware that he was married, for fuck’s sake! What kind of crap excuse was that? She felt like pointing out that it hadn’t stopped any of the other husbands in the street. His feeble excuses had been pathetic, but still she had felt rather stupid walking away empty-handed, even if it was all down to his non-existent cojones, rather than any failing on her part.

The bottom line was that it would now be this thing, this embarrassment, an undeserved blot on her prefect record. If she wasn’t moving away she would have had to crush him, to blow him away, to keep it from her consciousness. It was not a thing to be reminded of. She certainly couldn’t entertain the thought of sitting in a pub with that grinning twat sat nearby, harbouring this secret. Nor, actually, did she now want to share any of her valuable self with most of those other ridiculous husbands, either in the pub or otherwise. If she’d had to wait any longer than the month she’d surely have to move onto their wives. As it was, a month was all that was given, exactly enough time for her to give notice on the house and arrange storage for her stuff. Two weeks of that was already up. In a fortnight she would be driving into the sunset, Hunter right behind her.

It had shocked her, this sudden change in plan. He’d told her he could not be involved with her whilst her previous conquests were neighbours. If she wanted any kind of partnership - an odd phrase for him to use, when she saw their togetherness as a giant, wild fuck-fest - then it could not be in Temptation Close. He would sell up immediately and if she wanted to join him then she could. Do bears shit in the woods? The proviso was that it had to be soon and if she let slip any hints to the wives about the husbands’ errant ways then the whole thing was off. It was a deal that suited her just fine. She didn’t like the bit about him not wanting to seal the deal sexually until he was away from the street, but she could live with that.

The plan was simple: their eventual destination, via an impromptu adventure tour taking in whatever and wherever took their fancy along the way, was a cottage he owned in the Outer Hebrides. He would be up and down between the two houses until then, taking certain essentials and putting other things into storage so the house could be sold. He even offered to take some of her stuff too. Anything left would be discarded. He would drive up and fly back, leaving the Beemer there. He was even going to swap bikes with a friend of his for a while, substituting the Death Machine for something more suitable for touring. It showed he meant business.

Frankly, she didn’t see them ever making the island cottage. It sounded a bit too boring and desolate for her. She thought they would just keep going, chucking their money about as they needed, since she was going to be rich now. She just needed her laptop and somewhere to plug it in from time to time, her bank card, and some of her collection of sex aids - certainly not forgetting the toys that could fit into the harness she so often wore at her waist. She envisaged a fabulous mix of luxury and roughing it, of plush fucks and filthy liaisons with strangers, of drunken scrapes and full-on fist fights with anyone who besmirched her honour. It would be a fitting episode in the life of one as gorgeous as her, and neatly it would provide the story for her next bestseller. It would also be one in the eye for all those smug witches who thought that marriage and commitment was morally superior to a free and single life. Maybe she could even persuade him to resurrect his life of crime, just to add to the thrill. They would surround themselves with adorers, and then leave every place with a bang. They would never be forgotten.

This place offered nothing to come close. It was bizarre that two such people could ever meet in such an unlikely environment. Still, everything happens for a reason. There was little about this street she would miss. A couple of the cocks, maybe; one or two pussies that she hadn’t managed to bag. Oh yes, she really must get round to telling the pink-haired girlfriend that she was going away indefinitely. That would cause some tears. Maybe a text was the order of the day, if she could gather herself to compose one.

Naturally, she couldn’t leave without making something extra of an impression, so she had a surprise lined up for when Hunter went North with his stuff. It would teach him for leaving her there alone. The grapevine told her that Nesta and Roni were off for a night’s stay at some posh spa. The latter’s husband would be invited chez Eva the Dirty Bitch for a final evening’s rude passion, where he would find some surprises, including the former’s husband. It was an assignation she had been considering for some time, and now was the obvious time to make it happen. It would need some babysitters arranged but that was their problem. It would certainly ensure that she left with one mighty big explosion. She allowed herself a wide smile at the thought and then decided to can the writing for the day and call up her soon to be ex-girlfriend. Yep, her life was pretty much damn perfect right now. Who the hell would want to be anyone other than her?

Alicia Unveiled

It actually felt strange sitting on Hunter’s chaise longue with her clothes on. The urge to strip was quite compelling. Three times Alicia had sat there nude, under his gaze. Incredibly, she wanted more of it. How had she felt those three times? It was an evolution of confidence, for sure. The first time had been in the wake of the exhilaration of her naked motorcycle ride through the county. All those open-mouthed stares, those gasps, even cheers. The reactions had been mixed but they had seemed to be on a range between shock and delight. There hadn’t been the revulsion she had feared, the insults.

OK, it was hardly a horseback ride through the packed streets of Coventry - just a couple of villages and a longish stop at traffic lights directly in front of a busy pub garden - but it was enough to make her feel under intense scrutiny. The thrill of the motorcycle had helped, as had the crash helmet. The wolf-whistles definitely helped. It was certainly the most outrageous thing she had ever done, the type of thing her trapped spirit always told her she should be doing, if not for her stupid self-consciousness. It had made her feel recklessly bold, sexy even. She had never seen herself as an object of sexual attraction until that ride. So when Hunter took her back to his place and asked if she was ready, the buzz had outweighed the trepidation. It had been like jumping into bed with someone for the first time.

It hadn’t been an immediate cure. Maybe it would have been better if they had been closer. It felt more like a cuddle and giggle moment, although those can easily lead to more, especially if you are naked. The lack of contact made her feel more like she was being observed and therefore judged. It was always on her mind that he would encapsulate all the bad things she saw in herself, and laid them bare as evidence for all to see. She knew artists liked to paint the truth. She’d thumbed through his book on Lucian Freud portraits and seen the loose flesh, the hard angles, the raw colours. Fortunately, Hunter was neither insular nor too wrapped up in concentration. Spending time with him proved a very enjoyable experience, even in this fraught circumstance. He was happy to chat with her and seemed at pains to keep things light-hearted, to help keep the fear from her mind.

The second time had been hard to start but by the end of it she felt properly relaxed. He didn’t put her in compromising positions. She always felt just a little covered even if there wasn’t a stitch on her. The poses didn’t open her up. Her husband, she remembered with a little embarrassment, was given an unexpected treat when they retired to bed that night! The third time had been anticipated. She actually saw it as liberating, even if the nerves wouldn’t quite go. The thrill of the raciness overtook anxiousness, helped by those private thoughts she had allowed herself about what could happen if the artist put down his brush, unable to keep lust to himself due to her nudity, and joined her on the couch.

Strange, being naked imbued the feeling that she should give herself to him, like it was the natural thing to do. It felt odd dressing at the end without having had greater intimacy. It was like he deserved it. She couldn’t fathom why she felt this, since in essence it was her doing the favour for him. She couldn’t think of a comparable situation to act as a reference point. It was like you shouldn’t voluntarily get naked for someone unless you were accepting and expecting them to do something about it. The expectation was the thing. She hadn’t thought any of the sessions would end as they did. The thought wasn’t even scary. It seemed natural. Like you would spontaneously hold even a total stranger if you had just both come through a perilous moment together. But this was a sort-of erotic moment, so the embrace would have to just be the start of it.

Picturing what happened after only led to greater anticipation, a greater normalisation of what would be a very un-normal way for her to behave. The idea made the cold rush of nerves go through her but she never fought it. In truth she wanted the affirmation that he thought her sexy enough to demand to take his reward. It would make it far more romantic that he had managed to restrain himself for their three sessions, until all the work was done, the pent-up passions of an artist and a gentlemen finally spilling over. The worst possible case scenario was the one she potentially faced now: the unveiling of the portraits, her first sight of them, only to realise he had perfectly captured the bony, saggy, ungainly non-beauty that she saw in the mirror, and now he wanted her to leave, immediately, and never darken his chaise longue with her gangly frame again.

‘Ta-dah!’ Hunter said as the cover was pulled clear of the first canvas. The other two followed with Alicia sat wide-eyed and biting her lip. The likeness was definitely there, she couldn’t fault him on that. There was no doubting it was her. However, there was a softness that she didn’t recognise, a flow to her form that she had never seen. There was a peacefulness to her expression in two of them, maybe wistfulness bordering on contented languor in the other. The eyes had a spark. The brightness from the window lit her, gave vigour to the flesh tones, took away the shadows that underscored all the droops she always saw in the mirror. The nudity made her pure. The figure in each was not voluptuous and alluring, but natural, calm, intriguing, inviting. She was beautiful.

The relief bubbled rapidly towards euphoria. The dread of thinking that anyone outside of this studio might ever observe the finished product was replaced by an urge to bang on every door in the street to show them. Perhaps she would even strip off before she did so! Maybe it was just a kindly portrayal by the artist, although one couldn’t deny the accuracy of size and shape and colour. It was sympathetically handled, some airbrushing in oils. People didn’t really see her like this, did they? Still, you never could see yourself properly could you, regardless of how many mirrors or photos, not from the simultaneous angles others could see you with, the movement and emotion. You would go through life never truly knowing what you looked like, or sounded like. You would never really know what people saw in you.

‘These paintings are going to be sold miles away,’ Hunter said, ‘to people who have never seen you and yet want you as the prime feature on their wall, to gaze upon daily. That’s a strange thought, is it not?’

‘Imagine if you ever bumped into them!’ she said, covering her open mouth in mock shock.

‘They wouldn’t recognize you with your clothes on,’ he said with a smile.

Her belly was alive. She wanted to dance and yell, to rejoice in the unshackling of her spirit. ‘It feels funny being here now, fully clothed,’ she said.

‘You’ll miss stripping for me!’

‘I could take them off if you wanted,’ she said, not much above a whisper, ‘if it would help.’

She didn’t know where it came from and it probably wasn’t the sexiest proposition. It had just come out, that mix of wanting to know just how attractive he found her and the idea that he deserved a reward for finding her attractive at all. She had never pictured the realities of doing it outside of the fantasy, because she had always assumed in real life he would baulk at the mere idea. But his eyes were soft, not indignant, and he was slowly coming towards her, kneeling down at her feet before she had a chance to backtrack.

‘I have thought about it,’ he said, taking her hands in his. ‘It has been very difficult to concentrate on many occasions. But I know you don’t really want anything to happen. I captured you as I saw you in these portraits and we both know that person is far too good for someone like me. What’s more you have a husband who has seen you like this from the very start, and to all best knowledge has never seen you any differently, so I think you both deserve not to have that fact tarnished by me.’

‘They say you should live life with no regrets,’ she said.

‘And there is no doubt you would have regretted it.’ He kissed her hands in turn and then rose to his feet, raising her up from the couch. ‘You have been the perfect model. I sincerely hope I get the chance to paint you again.’

He led her to the front door and then set her free, like a trapped butterfly, she thought, as she went back inside her home. The “far too good for me bit” had been a generous touch. She had been about to bumble into a situation way out of her control but he had let her off the hook without letting her down at all. She had been caught in the moment, right out of her depth there, and he had swum her back to shore. Another burst of joy filled her and this time, because she was alone, she was able to give out a loud whoop and punch the air.

All Coming Together

It started with a lie and ended with more secrets than any of them would have imagined. Nesta and Roni had to pretend they were going to the same spa they always did, rather than the much swankier Charbury Manor, thirty miles away in the next county. Their husbands had to contrive meetings with old university friends - a one-off, one night only opportunity which couldn’t be missed. It was Eva that gave them the idea, a viable excuse required to arrange last-minute babysitters. All Eva herself had to do was cancel the pink-haired girlfriend when she was sure the husbands would turn up, and then make sure they came at intervals, when she was ready for them.

The wives’ excitement was palpable from the offset. Spa days were always a treat and Charbury Manor was almost legendary in its opulence. Hunter must have splashed some serious cash to get them in. Not only had he got them a room for the night, he had only gone and hired out one of the exclusive lodges hidden amongst the wooded grounds. There was a large lounge area with plush sofa and a log burner - with wood kindly supplied, even though summer was nearly upon them. There was a luxury bathroom with complimentary Bvlgari toiletries, a corner bath and a separate shower, even bigger than the double ones they had at home.

There were two bedrooms, one with twin single beds. Then there was the master suite, with a huge superking-sized bed in a plush leather frame, complete with TV that could remotely rise from the foot end. There was no way one of them wanted the short straw of the twin room. As intimate as it would be, it went unsaid that they would both end up in the one big bed, probably too exhausted after a day’s pampering to make use of the in-built visual entertainment. It crossed Nesta’s mind - maybe Roni’s too - that Hunter had deliberately ensured they slept in that bed together. The lodge was so wonderful and comfortable it seemed a shame to go out and leave it at all. Compensation, however, came in the most relaxing, sumptuous day imaginable. There were aromatherapy massages, reiki and hot stone treatments, saunas and hot tubs, body wraps and facials. There was an exquisite lunch - grand but nothing heavy, with a fine wine to wash it down.

Since Hunter had provided all this, and since they were together and so relaxed, it was obvious they would talk about him. Most was about his character in general - more supposition even though Nesta now knew him much more intimately. It was only when they were back at their lodge, lying together on the bed wearing the thick, soft bath robes provided for them, that it was no longer possible to sidetrack it anymore, and the details of Nesta’s sin had to be shared. She told Roni about why he was leaving, although she said it was simply to protect her from Eva’s gossip, judiciously leaving out the bit about the errant husbands. She told her all about the times they had spent together. This wasn’t something she would normally do, nor did she expect Roni to want to hear it, but they were so close and giggly and such juicy illicit details are so much fun to share, that it all came tumbling out.

She told her the bit about Hunter aiming to come and see them there, even though he couldn’t because he was miles away on some remote island. But, nevertheless, both privately pondered the thrilling implications of all of them ending up in the same bed together. They chatted so openly about him, so excitedly and honestly, allowing themselves to expand the notion of him arriving and seducing them as a pair, that when he suddenly turned up in his hire car, coming straight from the airport with him having dallied only to buy the picnic and the pink champagne on the way, well, then it was as if they had somehow magicked him there between them.

As soon as he walked through the door it was obvious what he had come there for. There could be no doubting it. Nothing was said but the implication was clear to all. They were there alone, all night, the husbands enjoying themselves elsewhere and with other things on their mind. They could never be found out. It was what the girls had talked about, albeit only in jest. Now it could be real. It was free and oh-so easy. The sofas might have been the safer choice for them to gather upon but the picnic spread out much better upon the bed. The TV was dropped back into the footboard, all the large candles in the glass vases were lit and the lights were dimmed down low. They told him about their day and gulped on their bubbly from their nerves. He smiled and joked and charmed without doing much at all.

They were all hungry so the feast was soon down to the dessert. He cut some of the strawberries and served them up in different ways: with cracked black pepper, then with melted chocolate, and finally with thick cream. Nesta dunked hers in her champagne and held the fatter end between her teeth, challenging him to bite off the rest. It was just a spur of the moment bit of fun, but it sparked it all. He took the bite and then they were kissing. Then Roni was offered the same thing, and it was her turn to be kissed. She knew she could have gone at any time; slunk off to the other room to give them their privacy. But it was so much easier to stay, so much more exciting. It was too easy and surreal to make her think there could be any serious implications. So the kissing went on and on, and soon all the laughter and the talking subsided.

By coincidence, at the same time that Roni realised the kissing was becoming something more, something she had no mind to resist, her husband was being let into Eva’s house. There was less romance on offer there. He was swiftly unzipped and grasped. She would strip him and tug at him and use her lips and tongue to ensure he was hard, and then she would work the oil into that lovely smooth shaft. After that she would take him into her bedroom to reveal the surprise whilst he was too turned on to baulk at it. At the same time as Eva went down on her knees to take him into her mouth, Roni was taking Hunter into hers, an act that excited her more for being silently urged to do it.

As Roni’s trepidation slipped away her husband was made to wait whilst Eva went into her bedroom. The light was on in there so when he was called through there could be no mistaking what he saw: his best friend and next-door neighbour naked on his back upon the bed, gagged with a pair of knickers and blindfolded, but still instantly recognisable. His wrists were secured to the metal headboard by a pair of red silk bandanas - ones like Eva wore when she was motorcycling. On top of him, completely stripped and facing the headboard, was the biker chick herself. She was astride him, impaled upon him, his glistening prick visibly sliding in and out of her as she moved, her irresistible bottom pushing out invitingly as she ground and wriggled upon him. He knew what she wanted him to do.

The kissing and the stroking went on. Nothing was hurried although the need was mounting. It was such a turn-on to watch her best friend like this, to see her with pleasure written all over her face. Jealousy couldn’t possibly come into it. The gowns came off easily, the underwear too, since they had already glimpsed each other in various stages of undress that day, and on other occasions too. To touch was a different matter, a possibility that had been implied although neither discussed nor agreed upon. The first kisses were therefore tentative, but when the sighs came in response, the last barrier was down. She was so beautiful, so perfect and somehow innocent in her rudeness. Their movements together were flowing, choreographed by instinct and their passion. There was no need for intrusive words. The tongue was all down her body and then between her thighs, and she was like velvet there, so delicate and sweet and gorgeous. There was no way she could let this be the only time.

Eva felt the hardness behind her and pushed back against it, the other one still inside her, buried deep. How had she made herself wait so long for this unique bliss? The forward push was measured despite the need to be in her, the slip opening her up by fractions, each one bringing new sensations alive. She pounded the chest of the other one, flung her head back, and screamed. Then he was fully in too, his crotch squashed hard to her behind to give the maximum penetration, two stiff poles separated by the merest thinness of her stretched insides. Each would feel the movement of the other now that he was thrusting her. Both would be stimulated by it. Not just fucking her but fucking each other, the shame and the thrill in equal measure, her joy trumping all, this unmatchable experience; full beyond euphoria.

The point of no return was miles behind them. Slender fingers were slid between delicate lips to feel the tight, slick cosiness within. Champagne was held in the mouth to tingle against hard flesh as it was sucked. It was only fair that he enter her first, going behind her as she lay on her side, so the two pairs of softer lips needn’t break their kiss. Then something new: him placing his arm across her chest to take her with him as he lay on his back. She was flat to him, both able to look up into the darkness of the rafters, him still inside her. He reached down to urge her legs apart so that a tongue could tease her. His nails ran teasing lines up her body, from sensitive thighs up over jumping belly and on to her breasts, those strong fingers pinching and pulling at the aching points as lips encircled her and breath drew in to make the throb heighten to a burst of bliss between her legs. The tongue was patient and instinctively skilled. She would come like that: with him holding her legs up behind the knees to open her wide and give him the deepest access, and with that tongue flickering, that warm mouth closing over her, the lips pursing to allow the suction to draw the ecstasy from within.

She was calling out, demanding that they fuck her, every cell of her body wracked by the sensation. She had flooded the one below. She leant back into the other as the last waves subsided, felt his arms go around to clutch and squeeze her. Her last groan turned into a laugh of triumphant glee.

‘Just think,’ she eventually said. ‘If your wife hadn’t been so frigid then none of this would have ever happened!’ Neither knew which one of them she was talking to. She knew her words were breaking the secrecy but she didn’t mind. The blindfold and the gag were only there as a safety measure, to cut initial embarrassment or reservation, to give them a sense of security and ensure they went through with it. Plus there was the thrill of masking her nudity from the one she liked least, keeping his wrists secure so that he couldn’t even touch her, the gorgeous one free to plunder her in the dirtiest ways, the other just a bitch for tying and using. Now she had been partially sated it was time to try something new, to really test their mettle. It meant interrupting the flow so she could find her harness and secure it at her waist. She didn’t mind. They would be glad of the breather. Perhaps the one would enjoy the chance to study the other, still so hard, and imagine what it would be like to bend forward and taste her upon that stiff prick.

She watched her on top of him, just as she herself had done that first time, her legs bent at the knee and folded beneath her, and spread either side of his body. She watched the lithe back arch a touch, the smooth curves below the trim waist, the little judder at the rise and fall. Then she was being pulled down, her chest to his, being held: the two most beautiful of all, kissing. Close in she could see everything. She could see the glisten on his smooth, taut skin, the trickle from inside going down him. She could taste them, press right in, curl her tongue under the tightened balls to gauge the heaviness, take them into her mouth. She could run her tongue upwards, up the slickness to where he disappeared inside her, into that delectable dark split to tease her more. She could aid their movement, grip the flesh of that perfect behind, so neat and soft, all pushed out and so inviting she couldn’t help but give it a little spanking, even though she had never dreamt of doing such things before.

She pressed on, gripping the toy at her waist to hold it firm, dropping her weight down onto him to force his bended legs hard against his chest and open him up further. He yelped and strained upon his shackles but she drove on and crammed him full. The other was quickly behind her, breaching that same hole although both were now on offer. The trick was not to be penetrated too deep, not even half way, so that the thrust forward would see him nearly out of her, whilst the withdrawal would see her totally filled. Only these two could work in such harmony for her. Perhaps they would do so again when she was gone. They would have to, in one sense, yet to be revealed to them. On her prompting, they had both unwittingly given their wife exactly the same story of meeting up with old friends - which was either going to be viewed as extremely coincidental or mighty suspicious when the wives inevitably mentioned it to one another. That was a nice thought. She liked the idea of leaving that time-bomb amongst them, primed and ready to go off with her sailing over the horizon.

With her in control they moved just as she wanted, milking the one, plundering the other; taking her pleasure, above all. This was a different kind of rapture. There was power in the one movement, dirty surrender in the other. Again, she didn’t mind having her release in front of them, because they just felt like her tools. She let herself shriek it; more triumph at her irresistible power over everything. Behind her he was coming close, driving forward hard - almost as if trying to go right through her and into him. ‘Yes, that’s it,’ she said. ‘You up my tight hole and me up his - I’m not sure you even need me here at all.’ Now that was a legacy to encourage. Imagine the two of them being discovered in bed together by their astonished, heartbroken wives!

The evening kept on, way, way past the unforgettable. Finally, as Nesta’s husband was being moved onto his knees, she herself was moving Roni onto hers, both of them eased forward onto all fours, opening up and already slick. Both Roni’s husband and Hunter were there behind; watching and ready. Then the fingers with the painted nails were curling around him, drawing him in, urging him forward until he was pressing at the little opening, breaching it, sliding slowly ever forward amidst the gasps and the squeals of joy.

It was all wrong, of course, but none of them could think of that now. They could only shut their eyes tight against the guilt and hope for the time when it might happen again. The boys left five minutes apart for reasons of caution, neither knowing quite what would pass when they were next face to face, whether the blindfold had been enough to ensure nothing need be said at all. Thank goodness for secrets! Hunter left the girls to share the night alone, although fatigue would soon take them over. He would not return again to Temptation Close until the day he was set to leave.

Gone

He left with as little fanfare as he came, sat patiently astride his bike outside Eva’s, waiting for her to emerge. Maybe it was just the mood of the day but he cut a lonely figure. All of them had to suppress the urge to run over and hold him. And then he was gone, sliding slowly away all in black, and none of the wives could hand on heart say they really knew for sure what he was: saint or sinner; saviour or manipulating thought-twister; human or monster; true lover or devious philanderer; real or imagined; devil sent to lead them astray or angel of retribution there to give them no more than they deserved.

Perhaps he was just him, just someone perfect enough for them to make their individual fantasies real, the giver of a golden, warming, illicit moment, a catalyst to transform them into who they wanted to be. Whatever, he was gone now and all of them felt the heavy ache of his leaving. The secrets of the street were safe, the danger over for now. Most of the cracks would even heal. It was better this way: brief and glorious, with his parting snapping the lid tight shut against any repercussions. But all of them, every single one of them, would wish for a day when he returned.