S: There’s one more development.
J: And what’s that?
S: (looking intently at me ready to gauge my reaction): I asked him for his number and I sent him a text. Now we can contact each other any time.
J: Interesting. So what are you going to do with that?
I’m expecting her to come back with a non-committal answer or to say she’s going to do nothing with it, or at least hesitate. She doesn’t. She’s really going for this.
S (confidently): Well first I’m going to text him while I’m relaxing in my bath this afternoon. (No asking me if I think it’s alright this time, I notice.)
Ever since I’ve known Sherrie, she has locked herself away with her candles and aromatic oils for a long soak in the tub each Saturday afternoon. I often joke with her about what she’s doing in there for so long with some of her thicker wax sticks, and she’ll give me one of her coquettish looks.
S: Wouldn’t you like to know!
I decide not to push the ‘texting Paul’ line of questioning any further and just let it lie. It seems to be doing ok without any urging on my part. We turn our attention to drinking the tea she’s made for us and, inevitably, end up fucking in the highly fevered mood we’ve created.
The fucking ends, of course. It always has to eventually. Even wired as we are, we can’t carry on all day, but the heightened sexual buzz of arousal remains around us like the anticipation of a child on Christmas Eve. We know that something is going to happen. It’s understood between us now, but we try to keep a lid of normality on it.
After breakfast, we take ourselves out in the sunshine to our local park which is about 20 minutes’ walk from home. It’s long been one of our favourite spots, and the scene of some of our early courting.
A remnant of an historical woodland, boasting some very tall and ancient trees, it was domesticated in Victorian times, set out with charming arboreal trails, and infused with a gentility and civilisation of its day that even now is highly reminiscent of that age. A quaint café still offers silver service, and cream teas; a boating lake with children and young couples in canoes, kayaks and pedalos that can be hired by the half hour; old ladies sit chatting or even knitting on the heavy wooden benches amidst the lovingly tended flower beds and neatly lawned garden areas. Over the wall in an adjacent field, we notice a cricket match getting under way. It’s a genuine old English oasis and an invigorating antidote to the modern lifestyle. Apart from the changing fashions of dress you might be walking there in any year from about 1850 onward, as a collection of archive photographs on the wall in the café attest.
As we proceed further, passing by the small playground thronged with parents watching their boisterous kids on the swings and vintage ornamental helter-skelter that I well remember riding in awe as a nipper, my mind is swirling around in the atmosphere of the park, around tradition and decorum; around devoted couples and close knit loving families through the ages plying these same pathways. We pass youngsters obviously lost in the earliest days of their love, just as Sherrie and I were 7 or 8 years ago. I’m holding her soft, dainty hand, needing the touch of her, and I look down at her long, shapely legs, perfectly in step beside my own, and I think to myself: What on Earth are we doing? How can I possibly want my perfect woman, my soulmate to do this? Why does she want HIM? It’s an acute turmoil that feels physical in my stomach.
Rounding the end of the boating lake, the ice cream kiosk hoves into view, and Sherrie shakes me from my troubling thoughts by squeezing my hand harder:
S (smiling that familiar loving smile): It’s so hot. I’d love a wafer. Do you want one?
J: Yeah. I don’t mind. Here, I think I have some change.
S: Nah. My treat. (It doesn’t matter who buys because we don’t do separate his and hers finances anyway. Everything we have is ours, and always has been from a couple of weeks after we met. That’s how quickly we knew that we were for life.)
She runs on in front of me; so young, so carefree. Because of the heat that Saturday, she’s in shorts. She’s actually wearing a pair of her running shorts from when she was in her mid teens. She’s very proud of them because they bear the area star badge from when she won the county cross country race at the age of 16 against all comers. At 26 now, with her womanly hips she fills them a lot more snugly than she did 10 years ago, but she’s still in great shape and proud to be able to get into them, and naturally, she looks wonderful in them; a sight for any man to behold. (Yes. She STILL has them today, and yes, she can still get into them.)
This link gives the idea of the appearance of them, but they are genuine running shorts, so not leather.
https://www.shein.co.uk/PU-Leather-Shor ... gLGDvD_BwE
On top she’s displaying her slender bare midriff beneath a boob tube that definitely has its work cut out to contain her breasts.
I watch her rear view in action as she slows down near the kiosk. She really is poetry in motion and, God, she’s so beautiful. Did I mention that? It only heightens my dark thoughts about what the hell we are doing. What would I do if I lost her to another man because of this nonsense? I’d probably kill myself. In this second, I know now with clarity that I can’t do this. I just can’t. I really am chicken shit, just like she said.
Soon enough, she’s purchased the ice creams, and she’s heading back to me with an angelic smile on her face, a few locks of her hair blowing cutely over her eyes as a wisp of the almost non-existent breeze catches her. This innocent vista makes my heart ache with love for her. Her smile and the sparkle in her eyes tell me that she is nothing other than mine.
Then I look down pausing briefly at her jiggling tits, to her legs, to the tight shorts, to her thighs reflecting the bright sunshine. I stare at the tightness of those shorts in her crotch, and it takes my mind to her red hot excited reporting of her misdeeds of only a few hours ago in those similarly tight jeans. It hadn’t been sunny last night, it had been dark. She wasn’t a loving wife walking through a prim and proper English park holding hands with her husband and about to share an ice cream. She was about as far from that virtuous image as she could have been.
Last night, a rampant young woman was off the leash and behaving sluttily in the sordid setting of a shop doorway, with another man’s hand in her knickers, and his finger straining to get into her wet cunt as she opened her legs to help ease his access. She’s already told me she’d wanted them to fuck. I suddenly realise I am standing here in the park with a serious hard on. My cock is thinking for me. The dichotomy between these two extremes of Sherrie is becoming my cocaine. I know now with clarity that I have to do this. I have to support her all the way and enter the rabbit hole. I need to know what happens. I can’t stop this compulsion. I thought I could, but I just can’t.
Sherrie and I share a sharp telepathy, and I am sure her feelings mirror my own. She can’t help herself either, and right now she doesn’t want to. She wants Trevelyan to possess her sexually, and it looks like she means to make it happen. It’s come from her although I’ve egged her on. It enthralls me, but it knots my guts too.
S: Raspberry ripple alright, Babe?
J: Yeah, perfect, sweetheart. You look an absolute picture. I love you.
S: I love you too, John. Thank you for being you. Thank you for loving me.
And she gives me the sweetest smile I think I’ve ever seen, but it’s probably the mood messing with my head. We are both overcompensating in demonstrating our sacred love to each other before we deliberately risk smashing it to smithereens on the altar of lust and excitement.