He appraised her. He’d never met a woman like her before. She was young, pure, tanned, roses-in-her-cheeks, melancholy-in-her-eyes, with shocks of honey curls kissing her breasts. She had an intensely alluring face: shining almond eyes, a cute toffee nose, and the thickest, pouting, cherry flesh lips. A beautiful woman of considerable standing and upbringing. A shy woman in search of love. She was dressed in a plain indigo dress, bared arms, bare legs, and poppy red stilettoes.
Angie looked fantastic. He tried to age her: late twenties, early thirties? It was impossible to tell. He softened in her presence, he became more human, loving, caring, than he had felt in his life, finding himself apologizing, sitting up straight for her, like a good boy, like a puppy about to be fed.
‘I’m sorry, did you bring the…?’
Clumsily, she unzipped her leather bag, extracting a thick wad of used banknotes.
‘Mmmn,’ she said, biting her bottom lip. Her stomach churned. She felt a burning in her urethra. Angie badly needed to pee, ‘It’s all here, would you like to count it?’
He shook his head sadly, feeling sorry for her. Her first time. She must be absolutely petrified,
‘Please, no, there’s no need. Let’s wait until we’re safely inside the bedroom, shall we, Angie?’
She was touched by his surprising consideration for her, his warmth towards her. He’d used her name deliberately. Feeling a warm glow of contentment inside, she permitted herself a nervous smile, ‘I need the loo rather urgently. Can we go, please?’
‘Of course, let me carry your bag.’
‘Thank you.’
‘If you’d like to follow me. Please.’
She wiped her lips, licking her finger with the tip of her tongue, biting her nails, overwhelming the man with her sheer innocence, her sensual allure, her natural body scent, ‘I’d love to.’
They left the bar and climbed the grand, spiralled, crystal-chandeliered stairs to the first floor.
Angie squatted over the loo with her indigo dress hitched as high as her breasts, her beige satin panties rolled as far as her knees, talking to herself, ‘What am I doing here? What’s got into me all of a sudden? I should be ashamed of myself for what I am about to do.’
She let her dress slip, shut her eyes, and clasped her hands in her lap, as if in silent prayer: for what I am about to receive may somebody, someone, who loves me, make me truly thankful.
Prayer recited: Angie sighed a long, deep sigh of relief. The luxury braided Palisades toilet roll hung off a brass ring on her left. She pulled off a thick wad and wiped herself dry enjoying the softness of the tissue rubbing against her cleft, the sad, imaginary, softness of Michael’s fingers rubbing her tenderly, rhythmically, caressing her body the way she used to love being caressed, to orgasm, the way she loved the most. Michael, who used to make sweet passionate love to her on the sun lounger on the veranda in the half-light of dawn, her favourite, romantic time of day.
She let her soiled wad fall in the lavatory pan, twisted her supple body at the waist, reached for her tube of lube, squeezed a healthy blob on her fingertips then smeared it inside her love hole.
‘Forgive me, Michael,’ she said to herself, opening her eyes, imagining his rugged face smiling at her from inside the vanity mirror, ‘It’s been five long years. I have to move on now, darling.’
He was waiting for her next door through the bedroom wall: the man she paid to love, waiting to fuck her. One last lingering moment of doubt, ‘I’m not sure I can do this. Of course, you can, Angie-girl. You deserve it after all you went thru, caring for Michael.’
Angie shook herself, pulled up her pants, flushed the toilet, threw the used tube at the bin by the wash hand basin, washed her hands, fluffed her bleached honey hair, and opened the door. She cast her eyes to the right, seeing the brass latch and chain drawn across, securing her inside, ‘No sign of a Do Not Disturb notice. Must be hanging on the doorknob.’
She’d hate to be found out. How would she explain her lover to her friends at the Bridge Club, Aquarobics, Swimming, Zumba, Pilates, Tennis Club, for that matter? How could she explain?
‘I could never tell them, not in a thousand years: my friends wouldn’t understand. Think of all the gossip, the scandal in our village. She permitted herself a wry smile, ‘He’s gone so far as to stick blue tack over the spy hole! He isn’t taking any chances, is he? Chances, with me. I wonder how many other women he’s loved in this bedroom, wonder if he’ll be kind, gentle, tender with me. I wonder if he’ll hurt me?’
Her nerves haunted her. Angie found herself trembling, shuddering at the idea of his lips kissing hers, his hands caressing her breasts, his proud flesh inside hers. Blinking her insidious fears aside, she stepped into the bedroom. Facing her was a full-length, glass-fronted wardrobe with its doors closed. Next to that, a polished wooden shelf filled with notepads, the hotel’s guide, two menus, a full tray of cups and saucers, selected fine teas, coffees, shortbread, and a kettle. At the far end of the shelf, next to pairs of flutes and Slim Jims, stood an ice bucket filled with plastic bottles of still and sparkling mineral water, a bottle of Moet & Chandon champagne, and some miniatures of claret. There was a narrow mirror over the shelf, a telephone for room service, a wireless internet connection, and, lying next to the ice bucket, a bunch of blood-red roses. Angie thought of the cash tucked inside her overnight bag. He’d left it on a chair for her, considerately, unopened.
‘How much has this cost him?’ she asked herself, ‘the champagne, wine, flowers, room, bed?’
The bed was a sheer unadulterated luxury, a layered wedding cake of a bed: an eiderdown, indigo bedspread, fluffy cream pillows. All cosy and snug! Her heart warmed, and Angie felt herself relax, ‘Indigo. Cream. My favourite colours.’
A bed in which to curl up with her lover.
He lay on top of their bed. He had shaved for her. She liked that. He was naked, slim, fit, pale, neat, trim, with short brown hair, a slender physique, and extremely well-hung. Angie could barely bring herself to stare at his cock. She lingered at the end of the bed, turning away, facing their mirror, murmuring, ‘Can you help me unzip my dress, please?’
He didn’t respond, didn’t answer her, just lay spreadeagled on the king-size bed, studying her. He’d never encountered a woman so very beautiful, and vulnerable, in his life. He found himself intrigued, beguiled by her, the sadness in those brown eyes. He desperately wanted to help her.
Neither of them spoke.
Angie glanced up at the hideous plasma screen tv hanging off the wall. There was a slideshow playing: shifting images: the restaurant, lounge, cocktail bar, a bedroom featuring a luxurious four-poster bed, table set for afternoon tea, rooftop garden, palm tree, indoor heated swimming pool, and underground car park. She found it distracting. Her brief encounter, her fleeting romance, her craved-for sexual reawakening, would be testing enough for her without an advertorial. She picked up the remote and switched it off.
He closed his eyes and pictured Sian, his beautiful wife, asleep in bed, her magnificent breasts cushioned by the duvet, kissing her soft lips before his illicit meeting. Sian, forever demanding, challenging, insistent that he make love to her until they created her new life, her baby. They’d been trying, so long. He questioned her fertility. How would his life change if her dreams of motherhood came true? Did he even want a child? How would he cope as a baby’s father with his shameful guilt?
His mind returned to Angie. Was she a mum? What would her kids think of her paying for sex?
The wall between the bedroom and bathroom was covered in floor-to-ceiling mirrors, a hallmark of the lover’s suites at Palisades. Angie dropped the remote suddenly fearing she might be being watched. The floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over a square green space dotted with elms, oaks, and wrought iron benches clustered around a stone water fountain, a statue of a cherub with a harp spouting urine into a basin. A tramp stretched out over one of the benches enjoying the warm afternoon sunshine. A plump elderly woman, her hair tied up in a bun, fed a flock of pigeons titbits, crumbs of stale bread from a paper bag. Angie thought that will be me one day.
She drew the curtain plunging the room into darkness. He was afraid of the dark. The shock of darkness brought back vivid memories of the horrid day when he and Sian, yes Sian was there, mowed down a young mother and her child, killing her baby instantly, the force of the collision hurling the buggy against a stone wall, her bloodied baby hanging off the straps of the buggy, the woman: lying, bent and twisted under the wheels of their 4×4. How Sian pleaded with him to leave the scene, the maimed woman screaming in agony under their wheels. How Sian forced him to reverse off her mangled body. How Sian insisted they left her, drove off. Their collective guilt.
Miraculously, the woman survived, returning to stalk him, terrorize him, endlessly haunt him, for his sins.
Angie broke into his silence, ‘Turn on the lights for me.’
Relieved that his nightmare was over, at least, for now, he fumbled for the dimmer light switch.
The light came on. Angie moved to the other side of the bed, more confident, ready for him, now. She stood facing the full-length mirror, watching him slide across the bed to be with her. He stood behind her, pressing his proud flesh into her creased indigo dress, her back. Offering no resistance, she explained why she was there, her classy articulated voice subdued, a whisper.
‘My dear husband died of cancer five years ago. He was my steadfast pillar of support, my best friend, my lover. I talk to him every morning when I wake, pray for him each night before I go to bed. I think of him every minute of the day. My life is empty, pointless, without him.’
‘I’m sorry. How long were you married for?’
‘Ten years.’
He felt an overbearing sense of remorse, and compassion for her. Felt sorry for her. He wanted to love her, care for her, make up for the loss she endured, her loneliness, and do something good for once in his life.
Ten years? She must be thirty, maybe as old as forty, yet she didn’t look a day over twenty.
‘That must be really hard for you, Angie.’
‘It is hard. Michael and I were inseparable. We played together, shared the same interests: golf, tennis, swimming, and keeping ourselves fit. Even worked together: we set up a successful cleaning company.’
He looked surprised, ‘A cleaning company? I thought you might work as a beauty therapist.’
The slightest hint of a smile appeared on Angie’s cherry flesh lips, ‘Why did you think that?’
‘Because you have such a beautiful face.’
She blushed, ‘You’re just being kind.
‘Not at all. You’re a very attractive woman.’
‘I try to stay young.’
He changed the subject, ‘Do you have any children?’
‘No, I couldn’t have children.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Please, don’t be. Michael and I were perfectly happy without children. We led very busy lives.’
She paused to think: and you, are you married? Do you have children waiting for you at home? Are there women, passing strangers in your life, rearing your unwanted bastards? Tell me your secrets.
She decided against it. The thought of discussing his marriage (surely he wasn’t married?), and his illegitimate children, she found distracting. Did she really need to know?
She ran out of small talk. He talked silently, exploring her with his fingertips, his puckered lips.
Angie sighed as he gently unclasped the hook on her dress, drawing its zip down as far as her bra strap, fluffing her honey hair, kissing her earlobes, the tell-tale brown hairs on the nape of her neck, pressing his lips into her soft tanned skin, brushing the hairy down on her upper back. She felt goosebumps rising on her exposed skin. Felt him pull the zip as far as the small of her back, licking a trace down her spine, savouring her skin, felt him lick her body, she felt a fresh, tingling sensation in her pussy – and a zest for living she hadn’t felt for years.
God, it’s started!
‘Please,’ she murmured.
He eased the dress off her shoulders. She slipped the fabric down her arms, pulling it off as far as her hips, exposing her shoulders, her slender back, her midriff, her waist, for him to hold, to kiss. His lips pressed into the small of her back. He held her hips. The dress fell in a crumpled heap around her ankles. She stepped out of it showing off her beige underwired bra, and her satin briefs. Angie’s body was magnificent, perfectly proportioned, well-cared for, she had a blemish-free tanned complexion. Her skin was well nourished. He leaned into her. His lips brushed her bronzed skin. Addicted to her intimate body scent, he just couldn’t stop kissing her divine flesh.
‘Mmmn?’
‘Be Michael for me.’
He’d engaged in roleplay for his clients before as part of their erotic fantasies. But this was the first time that he’d ever performed the role of a woman’s dead husband. He found the prospect daunting, detecting a subtle change in Angie who had shaken off her pre-sex jitters, and become more strident, dominant. He suspected she had a plan, a screenplay, for him, her performing sea lion, her captive puppet-on-a-string, to act out. He wasn’t far wrong.
‘How would you like me to act for you, Angie?’ he asked, gently massaging her shoulders.
She smiled fully for the first time. The smile lit up her face, ‘I’ll help you, Michael. Listen to me carefully. Listen to what I say, what I tell you to do. Pretend you have just come home late after a hard day at the office. You find me waiting for you in our bedroom, getting undressed for bed. You love to watch me undress. You love me to wear satin for you. I dress in my silky satin slip for you. Pretend for me? Please? Then let your imagination run wild. Is that any help?’
He swallowed hard, ‘I think so.’
Angie reached behind her back, fiddling with her bra clasp, ‘One more thing. Call me Angela. My husband always used to call me Angela when we made love.’
Made love. Such an old-fashioned expression. We’re about to fuck, and she wants me to make love to her, as her dead husband.
He remembered her payment, the cost of hiring the lover’s suite for the night, the cost of Moet & Chandon, the train tickets. Sian awaited his return, none the wiser. What would she do to him, to herself if she found out? The consequences of his infidelity, his fake life, didn’t bear thinking about. He re-focussed and checked his watch. If he got his skates on, he might just catch the 16:43 back to Paddington. He could be home with Sian by eight, pretend he’d had another tiresome day selling financial investment proposals to a bereaved woman. He heard her refined voice articulating in the background. She hadn’t paid him yet.
‘Shall we make a start?’
She had his full, undivided attention. He held her slender waist, ‘Yes, where do we begin?’
Angie was sweating profusely as she commenced, ‘You’re home late tonight, darling.’
‘I had a hard day at the office, Angie.’
‘No, not Angie,’ she chided, ‘Angela.’
He removed his hands from her midriff, realizing, he shouldn’t be touching her there just yet.
‘Sorry, I meant Angela.’
She unclipped her bra, ‘There’s no need to apologize. Being in love means never having to say sorry to each other, doesn’t it?’
He nodded his understanding, as the truth finally dawned on him.
This fantasy, roleplay of hers, wasn’t just make-believe. This was for real! She thought he was..
He watched dry-mouthed in the mirror as she casually slipped the bra straps over her shoulders, letting the straps hang off her elbows, easing the cups off her breasts. She let her bra fall on the carpet reaching for him, wanting him to touch her. He gasped at the sight of her buoyant, floppy breasts, her flat round beige nipples, her tiny teatlets speckled with sweat. She craned her head. They kissed deeply pausing for breath. When she managed to speak, her voice was all, hushed.
‘You can rub my breasts, if you like, Michael. Would you like to rub my breasts?’
He cupped her breasts in his hands, loving the feeling of the soft undersides, her sore bra weals, kneading her rounded, doughy breasts, flicking, rubbing her nipples, until her teats stood erect.
‘Love that, don’t you? Love it when you rub my breasts. I love you, Michael. Do you love me?’
He gasped, lost for words. He’d never felt, touched, caressed, loved, a woman like this before, a beautiful woman like Angie. Her sensuous allure erased Sian from his mind, obliterating her. After several tense, silent moments, he found his voice, hissing fatal words in her ear, his voice slurring, dreamily, thrilled to be captivated by her magical trance.
‘I do, Angela, I love you.’
The truth was, he really meant it.
He moulded his body around hers, freeing her, releasing all her pent-up inhibitions, her mournful grief. Languishing under his forceful pressure, relishing the feeling of his warm chest brushing her back, the divine sensation of his proud flesh: erect, turgid, pressing into the crevice between her fleshy buttocks, she relented, capitulating, losing control and gasping as he kneaded her breasts. She drew his hungry mouth to hers, kissing him some more, covered his hands with hers, and slid his palms over her soft tummy, encouraging him to explore her navel, her concealed belly button. His firm hands caressed her belly. She slipped his fingers inside her moist satin briefs. She tantalised him, allowing him to fondle her soft, hairy mound.
‘Pull down my pants,’ she pleaded, her voice hoarse, husky with sex.
He obliged her, stripping her of her satin briefs, as far as her knees. Mesmerized by her explicit revelation, her daring final denouement, he let her go. She dropped her pants and stepped out of them, breathing heavily, exhaling, panting, gasping, struggling to speak she was so aroused!
‘Lie on the bed. On your back. Face the mirror. Close your eyes. And wait.’
She went to the bathroom. He stretched out on the bed, shut his eyes, waiting for her to come.
‘You can open your eyes now.’
He opened his eyes. Angie was standing at the end of the bed sipping a glass of red wine. She’d wiped off her lipstick and makeup: natural blushes coloured her cheeks. She looked sensational. She finished her wine, then spread her body all over his: her slender back resting on his belly, her soft buttocks nestled in his groin, her full breast touching his lips. He kissed her breast, she reeked of statement-making perfume. He’d only smelt it once before, at an exclusive perfumery in Paris: the unmistakable fragrance of chocolates, red berries, caramel: Angel, the 23-year-old cult fragrance by Thierry Mugler, the sexiest scent in the world. Her aroma, her irresistibly fleshy breasts, her tummy, her soft bum, her puffy lips, intoxicated him. He wanted to fuck her, hard. She cradled his head in her hand, rubbed her breast on his mouth, and draped her hair all over his face, creating her intimate veil of secrecy, whispering in his ear.
‘Well,’ she said, kissing his head, pushing out her breasts for him, her hand on her hip, ‘Will I do for you?’ Her eyes were shining with tears. For one sacred moment, he was lost for words. His heart went out to her, ‘You look beautiful, Angie, just beautiful.’
She trembled as his hands slid over her belly, brushing her soft, curly hairs with his fingertips, caressing the tender, pliant flesh, the insides of her thighs, forcibly prising her legs apart. Angie, face flushed rose with passion, softly kissed his lips pushing her tongue deep inside his willing mouth, devouring him with her taste. She opened her legs for him, craving him. He splayed her lubricious labia, drawing her lips apart with his deft fingers, stretching her veinous fleshy skin, rubbing her erect clit, her little penis, struggling to restrain himself from thrusting his cock well inside her, penetrating her beguiling love-hole, fucking this beautiful woman he barely knew.
‘Angie, I’m not wearing a…’ he began.
She pressed her fingertips to his lips, ‘It’s alright. I’ll take a pill.’
They kissed-some-more. She impaled herself on him hungrily feeding him inside her lubricious cleft, sliding up and down his slippery shaft, clenching his girth with her birth muscle. He bore her body weight, kneading her doughy breasts, stimulating her naughtily with his stubby middle finger. She shuddered at his intervention, writhing in ecstasy on his glorious spear, cupping her breast, forcing her stiff teat into his mouth, suckling the baby she couldn’t birth. They ascended, pinpricks of light, glowing scarlet fireflies, pervading their ruptured minds. They bonded, their bodies melding, locked-together-tight, they gripped, clawed, clenched, tore, fought each other.
Soaring to her climax, she screamed out loud, ‘Miss you! Love you!’
Spent, shattered, his tarnished doll, she flopped onto his limp body whimpering softly, lovingly, ‘Do you love me, Simon? Please, tell me, you do.’
‘I do love you, Angie, very much.’
He groaned. Tenderly she slipped his still-stiff cock out of her wet cleft kissing him on the lips.
‘You made me all sticky, darling,’ she laughed, ‘I think I need a shower.’
He smiled, genuinely happy for her, truly content, for the first time in his life, ‘I think you do!’
He shut his bleary eyes and fell asleep dreaming of her: the widow, the craving love they just made.
Angie said a heartfelt fond, ‘Goodbye Michael’ – under her breath.
She grabbed her bag, spread five hundred pounds over the chair, had a hot shower, dried herself, did her hair, put on fresh make-up, scent. She climbed on the bed, lay with him, her naked body pressing his, facing him, slumped on their love-soiled sheets, kissed his ear, his cheek, his lips, then whispered her heartfelt invitation, ‘Will you come home with me tonight, please?’
Simon murmured that he would.
Angie’s love had only just begun.
