I can’t seem to get Meg out of my mind. At times, my lust for her feels as if she is a leech, sucking the lifeblood out of my heart. For me, at least, our nightly ritual of exploring her fantasies is more than just an immensely satisfying mutual pursuit. She feels real. She has become an obsession, a bad fetish, an infatuation essential to my survival. I wonder if she feels the same way about me: obsessed, head-over-heels in love, needing, craving more, and more, intimacy, our passion igniting then bursting into flames, spreading as wildfires, incredibly sensual explosions, whenever we meet at night.
The love of my life, my partner for six years, my adorable, loving, encouraging soulmate Olivia doesn’t know about us. I doubt, she’d understand the intensity of our affair if she did. Ours is a marital issue I attribute to our age difference: at twenty-eight, I am twelve years younger than she is; that coupled with my abject failure to seed her egg with my sperm, and give her the child she so desperately wants.
Still a young man, this gym freak hides in the spare room underneath the louvre window, assessing his latest do-it-yourself creation: the faked beechwood bookcase I built out of a cardboard flatpack. In all probability it will never be filled. I feel too exhausted, both physically and emotionally, by the time I climb into bed in the small hours, to read a book. While Olivia stores her trophies, her scripts and audios, in the glass-fronted display case that occupies the full extent of the rose wall of her much-hoped-for downstairs playroom.
We have agreed to sleep in our separate beds, only touching each other intimately on rare occasions. When we hold hands for gripping scenes at the cinema or theatre. When we’re on holiday. When we deliberately fornicate, purely for sex: her functional, fruitless, futile, baby-making sessions, as she likes to call them.
The summer sun sets like a red rubber ball hanging in a blood red sky. Night falls at last, its clear velvet canvas filling with stars. Naked, shivering at the unseasonal summer chill, I turn to face the smeared looking glass. My tousled espresso hair looks a mess. I haven’t shaved today. Meg loves me like this: coarse, rough, ready for her, adoring my muscled shoulders, worshipping my bulging biceps, the well-honed pecs, licking my flat stomach, my taut buttocks, my hairy groin with its lengthy eel which dangles like a stallion’s penis between my steely thighs.
Olivia, on the other hand, finds my face scratches hers, that’s on the infrequent occasions when we kiss or make love. My scruffy appearance and grooming are intolerable for her in other serious ways. Her unemployed, redundant – thanks to AI – financial advisor hasn’t got a hope in hell of finding a job until I smarten myself up and make a real effort for her.
Until I gain useful employment, she will earn sufficient salary out of her unique voice to support us both. She accepts the situation. Because I get depressed. Because she loves to fuss over me. Olivia Hearst: the sane mother I never had. But, at the moment, she is sound asleep in her rose and carnation pattern wallpapered en suite bedroom. It is safer for her adulterous spouse to stray.
My fluffy red dressing gown hangs off a brass-effect plastic hook; one of three hooks I screwed into the back of the spare room door. Careful not to catch my feet on the splinters in the bare wood floorboards, I tighten the soiled bedsheet, straighten the Clarins scented pillow, then haul the sleazy black silk satin duvet up off the floor onto my single divan bed. Shrugging on my snug, I slide my feet into the cheap navy chequered slippers she bought me at the local Monday street market, leave the room, and creep stealthily down the creaking flight of stairs with the light switched off.
Holding my breath, I shut the living room door soundlessly behind me. Once I am safely concealed inside my writing den, I switch on the main light, taking in the hordes of faded faces, my spouse’s precious family portraits, all of them staring disapprovingly down at me, judging me for my sins. I am not religious or agnostic. I’m an atheist. Yet I still pray:
For the sins that I am about to commit, may they all make me feel extremely shameful.
There is the thinnest of cracks in the strawberry cluster cream curtains. I can’t risk being caught in the act by our nocturnal neighbours. I move quickly, drawing the plum mauve drapes firmly shut. A heavy oak dining table dominates the room, its flaps fully extended to provide me with plenty of workspace. My open laptop sits ready for use, to one side of a portable keyboard, a large plasma screen. I sink into my orthopaedic chair, power up the pc then wait for the screen to illuminate before I get to my feet to switch off the high economy ceiling light.
By now, I’m so on edge that I cannot get my password to work. I try punching in the eight letters, numerals and hashtags more carefully, sighing with relief when a full screen image of a younger Olivia, sunbathing on a sandy beach in a skimpy white bikini, her sylph body and fat breasts smothered all over in factored suntan oil and sweat, blesses my tired eyes.
She was different then: liberated, liberal, uninhibited, fun. She fucked me every afternoon on holiday in Saint Raphaël on top of the camp bed in our tent. She didn’t give a damn if anybody heard her.
How our lives have changed since the starlit night when I proposed to her outside the fish restaurant on the pretty harbour’s moonlit sparkling water’s edge. She aged, beautifully, gracefully into young middle-age, and lost interest in sex – other than the emotional, tense, if not dry sessions she undertakes with me when we try to create her baby, Olivia is barren. My mood, mind, and sexual needs have altered as a result, reducing me to an obsessive, obsessed, sex-starved, daring risk taker, a frustrated lover seeking thrilling escapes from our monotonous love life. A fantasist who finds solace, comfort, indulging in uninhibited, illicit sex with a sensuous young mother.
I check the time at the bottom right hand side of the screen: 00:16 or 18:16 due to the six-hour time difference where Meg lives. I wonders if she’s finished work yet, come online?
Pushing my knees hard up against the edge of the table to help me concentrate, I connect to the internet, praying the upstairs hub doesn’t fail, my personal service isn’t interrupted. I search for Sensuous Pursuits. The secure confidential site boasts an unhealthy choice of erotic stories, members’ profiles, private messaging. Using my real identity, I rediscover her identity, her history, relishing her personal details, drooling over her innocent portrait:
Name: Meg.
Sex: Female.
Lives: Mississippi, USA.
Details: 24 year-old mother of identical twins, nurse (baby unit), wife, lover, sex writer.
Describe Yourself:
Kind of naughty, actually very naughty, depending on the phase of the moon. Ripe for fucking.
I enjoy family holidays to the Deep South (Florida), writing erotic stories, extramarital affairs with my toy boy Todd.
Meg looks stunning. She is wearing her shoulder-length oak hair parted down the middle, accentuating her shiny teak eyes, her lovely smile: her sad, exhausted, smile. Slim, petite, she has small breasts with long arms. Still dressed in her scrubs: a navy blue t-shirt, navy trousers and stethoscope, she has a slightly tanned face, pale arms, and soft, kissable, lips.
Reluctantly, I tear my eyes away from her to check my inbox for notifications. The colour image I use to portray myself to young women on Sensuous Pursuits – a well-tanned stud with wet, jet black hair, clutching a towel to his bulging crotch, isn’t me. It is how I need to appear for sexually promiscuous young mothers like Meg.
I have one new message:
Hello Simon,
Todd came into the house and fucked me last night. The girls were asleep upstairs. Matt was working nights, so, we fucked on the cream sofa in the downstairs lounge. I kept my bra on. I imagined it was you, Simon, coming inside me.
I love you, baby,
Meg
xoxox
She teases me this way to make me jealous, keep me wanting her, to arouse me. Aroused, oblivious to the sound of someone navigating the upstairs landing, I melt into my chair, slip off the gown, discard my ill-fitting slippers, feeling my crotch as I type single-handed:
Why did you keep your bra on?
I wanted to save my breasts for you, Simon.
Why?
Because they’re very personal to me. Look, I don’t bare my breasts for just anyone, baby.
I appreciate that.
Good, I like it when you appreciate me.
Thrilled to learn she saves her little breasts, just for me, I question her sexual promiscuity.
You do seem to be fucking Todd rather a lot these days, Meg.
Why, honey, are you complaining?
My heart leaps and thumps inside my chest. The risk of her, teasing me live online, makes my cock hard, makes me blush and sweat. Asserting myself over my rising sense of guilt, my shame, I talk to her out loud as I write, risking being overheard. I try in vain to control my straining erection from banging too hard against the underside of the table as I write:
Not complaining, just saying.
Simon, she responds, I’m not like other girls. I need the thrill of fucking just to stay alive. The urge for me to fuck strong fertile men like you is growing here inside me like a foetus.
Christ, Meg! A foetus?
A foetus, baby. I crave the adrenaline of creating new life, twins like Alicia and Alice. The girls aren’t Matt’s, Simon. My husband suffers bad anejaculation. He can’t spurt sperm. I bred the girls with Todd. I need to breed again. I bear a vivid crimson birth scar as proof.
My eager, corrupt mind is astonished, astounded by her, petrified of her, at the same time.
You bear a vivid crimson birth scar as proof?
Mmmn, the birthmark we all must carry…
We? There are more of them, fucking voyeurs out there? More hypersexual sluts like her?
…the slash we carry since birth. The scar that tells the tale of our creation, our survival, our future progeny. It’s slashed, just here, right across my belly. Like me to show it you?
My body trembles at the prospect. I can’t stop myself shivering or running a cold sweat.
I’d love you to, woman.
Let me show you my body, for real.
I swallow, hard, rigid, stretching at her prospect. I can’t stop myself leaking out semen.
For real?
Honey, I want you to see me, my slash, in all my naked glory, want to breed with you. I want to have your babies, Simon. And, one day, soon, I will. Like to breed with me, baby?
I’d love to, my sweet, sexy, horny, bitch on heat. I love you, Meg.
And I love you. Here’s the link for you to call me: xxxx-xxxxxx-6584-MEG, see you, Meg.
I click her link and wait. When Meg reappears on the screen, she is lying on a sun lounger in bright sunlight, lit up just like a matinee cabaret starlet, a beauty model, in all her naked glory, unimaginably stunning stripped of all her scrubs. Her wet teak hair dripping beads of pool water, tickling, teasing her small tanned left breast, just above the caramel button of her stiff left nipple.
Beguiled by her, I zoom in closer, magnifying her: her skin, coated with tiny beads, froths of water droplets. I stare at her serious face, the thin drape of wet hair clinging to her left eyebrow, rubbing her eyelid closed, her blushing cheeks, her cute, turned-up snub nose. Her mouth opens; she parts her lips. I can see the line of her top teeth beneath her puffy, pouting, soft, kissable, lips.
Meg was telling me the truth: her vivid crimson scar really is slashed, cruelly, across her abdomen, her belly. One of her hands is sensually stroking her tummy, her fingers pressed firmly into her soft flesh, showing me her three sexy star tattoos, her beige, bald, depilated pudenda, her sealed lovehole, her rosy-raw folds, her blushing sore, flushed cleft, her sex.
I vaguely hear her lilting sugar-candy sweet voice, guiding my lust inside her sexual web.
‘Like what you see, baby? Like to fuck my pussy?’
I gasp at her; she makes me catch my breath, ‘What do you think? I’ve never seen such a beautiful woman reveal her cunt in all its naked glory. Your cunt is sensational, woman.’
She casts me a knowing glance, cocking her head to one side, ‘Lovelier than your wife’s?’
‘Much lovelier.’
‘Like to know what happened when I fucked Todd?’
‘You know I would.’
‘Sit back from the screen then, so I can watch that fat cock of yours rise for my wet pussy.’
I push my wheeled chair back from the dining room table with the balls of my feet, sit up a little for her, so she can see me rise for her.
‘My, he’s big, baby,’ she says, grinning ear-to-ear, ‘Let’s see if I can make him sprout. Are you squatting comfortably?’
Sprout? If I’m honest, I’ve never felt so pleasantly uncomfortable in a chair. I tell her so.
‘Good, then I’ll begin.’
I brace myself for all her lurid details. My whole body goes tense. Is it my imagination or did she just move her slim hand into her crotch? She clutches her left breast as she speaks.
‘I asked Todd to meet me outside on the veranda at midnight.’
Visions of horses tied to wooden balustrades, hordes of native Indians massing for attack on the horizon, cowboys riding steers, cloud my active mind, ‘You own a veranda, Meg?’
‘Sure, it’s an old-fashioned, wooden-planked veranda, it has a wooden balustrade.’
‘Do you ride horses?’ I ask her, suddenly, inquisitively.
‘I only ride men’s cocks, I’m afraid. Like me to carry on?’
I nod my head rhythmically, as if I am her toy nodding dog, nodding appreciatively at her on the parcel shelf of her car. I wonder what car she’s driving, wonder if she drives at all?
‘I opened the door to him at midnight.’
‘Other than your bra, what were you wearing, Meg?’
‘I opened the door to him,’ she repeats, ‘wearing just my black lace bra and panties under my see-through baby negligee. He was dressed in a red t-shirt, sawn off jeans, trainers. A storm was brewing. It was really hot that night, baby, really hot, sticky, wet, and sultry.’
‘Like you, Meg?’ I venture, struggling to contain the pitch of my voice.
‘Mmmn, like me.’
She piques my interest, my curiosity, my torso. Aroused, I ask, ‘What did you do next?’
‘I took my stud to the lounge, told him to keep his voice low, didn’t want us to wake the girls…’
I listen for Olivia, prowling around upstairs. Hearing only silence, I concentrate on Meg.
‘…when I fucked him. We sat on my cream sofa kissing, throatily, deeply. I let Todd feel my breasts, held his hand while he played naughty games with me, his fingers rubbing my pussy intensely, rubbing me vigorously, deeply inside my panties, making me all wet.’
Not sure I can cope with her much more, feel all hot, flustered, feel I’m about to explode.
‘I unzipped his pants. Pulled out his cock. It was crowing proudly for me. He gasped out loud when I ran my closed fist up and down his shaft, baby, dwelling on his sticky nub, squeezing out his gooey liquor til he pleaded for me, to undress for him, to squat for him.’
I can barely muster a whisper for her. I feel hard, ‘And did you? Strip, and squat for him?’
‘I stripped off my negligee, crouched between his thighs, pulled off his pants, and sucked his cock, honey. Gave him head till he was ripe, stiff, ready for me to fuck. I lifted off his t-shirt. He had a hairless chest, smooth and muscly and sweaty. He tried to peel off my bra in all the excitement, asked to kiss my breasts. I pushed his hands off me, told him to sit still as he could given his heightened state of arousal, while I peeled off my panties.’
‘And then?’ I croak, hoarse with sex, her sex.
‘I cocked my leg like a poodle, climbed up on the cream sofa, straddling him, splaying my pretty rosy-pink lips. I impaled myself on his rigid shaft, fucking him like a whore till he came inside me. I orgasmed lots of times, imagining he was you spurting out inside me, breeding me.’
I hear Olivia skip downstairs. Quickly, I pull on the gown, tie the sash cord tightly around my waist. She throws open the door without even knocking, switches on the light, walks in. Conscious, my sweating face is blushing, I instantly log out of the finest adult site for promiscuous consenting adults looking for companions to spend the night with, and delete history. She isn’t wearing her nightie. I feel her warm hands grip my shoulders. She stands behind me, staring at the blank screen, her naked body leaning into me as she ruffles, and kisses my oily hair. Her breath smells of mint mouthwash.
Olivia presses her soft heavy breasts against my shoulders, ensuring she has my undivided attention. Given the look of guilt written all over my face, she tests me, embarrassing me with her humiliating, frank, candid, assault on my senses, my manhood. Hell, my dignity.
‘What are you doing up so late in the night, darling? Were you playing with your cock?’
‘Just checking my emails and messages, writing, finishing off my to do list for tomorrow.’
She doesn’t believe me. ‘I see. Is that why you’re blushing like a schoolgirl, sweating like a pig?’
Before I can open my mouth, she asks who I was talking to. I can’t believe she heard us.
‘Anyone would think you’ve got a secret lover,’ she adds, probing deeply, ‘Not, are you?’
Confused by her, irritated, I somehow manage to get two words in edgeways, ‘Not what?’
‘Seeing someone?’
‘Cut it out, will you? I’m not seeing anyone. I only love you, Olivia.’
She softens, turning my head to face her, softly kissing me on the lips, ‘Get to bed, Simon. You look exhausted.’
Her face looks deadly serious, her rose pink lipstick lips are firmly set, her steel grey eyes fixed on me. She raises an arm, pushing her slim hand through her wispy thinning blonde hair, drawing my eyes to her freshly-shaven armpit, her gorgeous pale breasts, their dark flat nipples. I love her best when she looks like this: beautiful, downcast, radiant – yet worried.
‘I will, Olivia,’ I soothe, enjoying her sudden flush of loving tenderness towards me, ‘I’ll just finish this list for you. Thought I’d paint your bathroom shelves and cupboards, weed the strawberry patch, cut the lawn, prune your buddleia bush, see if I can find some cashier work in the supermarket.’ I turn the tables, ‘What are your plans? Acting? In your studio?’
Her eyes light up, ‘He just sent me a thirty thousand word audiobook to record at twelve pence a word – and he’s agreed to pay me upfront.’
I don’t need to be a redundant financial advisor to work that out, ‘That’s three thousand, six hundred pounds!’
She throws her arms around me, and gives me her loveliest, cuddliest, hug, ‘It is! I thought we’d celebrate, take a holiday. I found a voucher for seventy-five pounds off, so I booked it. I thought we could try for my baby? We fly out to Miami Beach next week, Thursday, ten nights. Soon as I’ve finished my erotic recording for him.’
My mind ignites: Miami Beach, Florida, The Deep South?
Delighted at her joy, caught out by the enthusiasm in her voice, I fake a cringe and squint, sheepishly, at her, through my reading glasses, ‘You perform erotic recordings for him?’
‘Yep,’ her smile fades, she claws at her hair, ‘I love acting out and voicing raunchy sex scenes for older men like you, plus they pay me really well. I thought I told you all that?’
I slowly shake my head and frown at her: the thought of my wife performing sex scenes for other men. Is this why our sex is so dull, unexciting? Is she saving herself for them?
‘Don’t worry, I won’t use my own name. I’ll use Isla’s name, to make sure I stay safe.’
‘It isn’t that, Olivia.’
‘What is it then?’
‘It’s the thought of you having intimate sex for another man’s gratification. I worry you might…’
She finishes off my sentence, ‘Get off with one of them, you mean?’ she holds my weary head to her motherly breast, letting my chapped lips rub on her nipple, pretending she’s suckling the baby I haven’t created with her yet.
‘No chance of that, Simon. I love you too much. Besides, it isn’t as if I’m having real sex when I record. I fake all of my orgasms.’
‘I should hope so,’ I murmur, slathering my wet tongue all over her erect teat. Breathing a protracted sigh of relief, I try to sound as if I’m interested, ‘What’s the book about?’
‘It’s about these weird and wonderful women who need to breed to ensure the survival of their species, the hapless men they prey on. Come on, it’s past your bedtime. Get yourself to bed. See you later. Love you, darling.’
‘I love you, Olivia,’ I say, lying to her.
I raise my head and kiss her on both cheeks, she returns to her bed, leaving me alone with:
I want to breed with you, want to have your babies. Like to breed with me, baby? Meg.
Yes, I would like to breed with you, Lover… and very soon, I will. Simon.
