Abby Hughes, dumped wife aged thirty-nine of Westfield Grove, was the sad description of me as I contemplated another Sunday of solitude. What to do to keep busy? The house is tidy, and the washing is done. The garden is tended. I’ve finished my book. You can’t call on your friends on a Sunday unless invited, and I haven’t been asked. Sundays are for partners. It used to be for me and Glenn. Sundays were our time. Our escape from the busyness of the rest of the week. Lazy mornings in bed, sharing each other. Perhaps Sunday lunch out or a movie before snuggling up before the busy week ahead
Sundays are for families and children. I didn’t have those. I wanted them very much, but it didn’t happen. It couldn’t happen, actually, as Glenn’s bout of mumps as a kid had rendered him infertile. I had hoped to adopt or perhaps have donor insemination. Glenn wouldn’t have that. He wanted his own kids or none at all. I loved him enough to let it go. I worked very hard not to become bitter.
Well, I’m bitter now. I’m very bitter that Glenn is playing happy families with Amanda Berry, his new partner and her three children, all under the age of ten. The kids love him and call him dad, and he’s never been so happy. Apparently, it didn’t matter in the end that they weren’t his kids. He loves them.
I’m so pleased for him that he gets the family I always wanted—the family I always wanted with him. Of course, I’m not really pleased; I’m jealous, bitter and hopping mad. Most of all, I’m sad. Sad and lonely with no one to love while that bastard Glenn is adored.
I know I’ll go out and get the car cleaned. That should fill an hour once I’ve driven there and back and sat in the queue. It will be almost tea time, then. I sit in the queue, watching the men work and laugh together. They laugh a lot, joking and throwing wet cloths at each other. I look at them in wonder; they are here doing this uncomfortable job, wet and cold, yet they’re happy and so much happier than me. They joked with each other, sharing banter in their own language. I don’t even know what country they’ve come from. That’s bad. I should know. It might be Albania, but wherever it is, they’re all dark-haired with olive complexions.
I watched them some more. There’s something quite handsome about them all. I don’t know why wellies and shorts should be a sexy combination on a man, but it is. It does something to me. I feel myself getting a bit hot and bothered squeezing my thighs together. God. It’s been so long, and I’m suddenly feeling horny. I’m shocked at the thought. Then, the guys turned the hose on one of the men. He’s the youngest, I think. He laughs and swears at them. But he’s still laughing. I can only see how the water makes his T-shirt cling to his body. His wet shorts showed the outline of his manhood. I can see the shape, and he is obviously circumcised. Even the blast of cold water doesn’t seem to have shrunk it in any way. It is pretty magnificent, and I find myself staring at him – at it. Suddenly, I jumped as one of the men taps on the car window.
“Move forward, lady,” he says.
The other men grin at me as I move the car forward. They start to clean, and I lose the one I’d been staring at. It turns out that he’s emptied the water out of his wellies before returning to the back of my car. I watch him through the rear-view window. His strong arms flex as he cleans the back. How old must he be? Twenty or twenty-one, perhaps? Young enough to be my son, that’s a depressing thought. There’s something about him, something about the way he holds himself, the way he moves. I close my eyes for a minute. I’m shocked when I open them again to see him crouching as he wipes the sill of my door clean. He’s not watching what he’s doing, though. He’s staring at my legs. I have always had good legs. Lots of dancing in my younger days. They are long and lean but still shapely, and I stretch them a little as he stares and smiles. Goodness, he is handsome. He should be on the cover of a magazine, not washing cars. It’s been so long since a man looked at me with obvious interest. Please don’t let him smell my arousal. Please let it be masked by the aroma of the car shampoo or by the leather of my car interior. Please let it be masked by something. Anything. He looks at me. He can tell. He knows.
“I finish now,” he smiles.
I stare at him. I want to kiss him—this wet young man with a damp cloth in his hand. I wanted to kiss him so much. I realised that he was telling me that I needed to pay. I reach over to the glove compartment and realise that I have presented my bottom to him as I lean over. I pass him the ten-pound note, and he smiles.
“Goodbye. Beautiful lady.”
I laugh as he pushes my door closed. He probably doesn’t speak much English and says that to all the ladies. Once home, I get in the shower, and I find myself thinking about him. I find myself touching myself as I do. Imagining it was him parting my lips gently and circling my clit with the pad of his fingertip. Moving his fingers in and out of me and pulling on my nipples as I cum for him.
Afterwards, in my loungewear in front of the TV, I realised I needed that release. I needed something. I needed more in my life, but first, I needed him. Perhaps just once. I needed the car wash man.
It rained heavily for the first part of the week. I drove up to our local country park after work on Tuesday. It was very muddy up there. The car park was full of puddles. I smiled at the dog walkers as they fussed over their excited dogs. I wanted a dog once, a baby substitute, I suppose. Glenn wanted a big dog, a man’s dog, he called it. An Alsatian was his preference. I wanted a dog that could sit on my lap, something I could cuddle. So, we couldn’t agree, so it didn’t happen. I wish I’d got the Alsatian now. It would have been company for me. Beautiful dogs, they are. As for Glenn, he’s got a dog now. I saw him walking it a few weeks ago. He didn’t see me. It’s Amanda’s dog, I suppose – a little Shih Tzu. He picked it up and cuddled it like a baby. God, he’s a prick. I hate him, but I don’t really. I hate myself for not hating him.
As I drove through as many puddles as I could on the way out of the car park. I was sure the car was suitably filthy. Tomorrow, I had the afternoon off. I really needed to get the car cleaned.
I saw him straight away, and he saw me. He smiled at me, and his friend nudged him, laughing. The queue was shorter on a weekday, and it was soon my turn. He washed my windscreen and looked at me intently. He was wearing jogging bottoms today. As he cleaned the side window, he pressed himself up against it. His T-shirt rolled up, and I could see his taut, hairy stomach. I felt a twinge of excitement. I knew he was teasing me then. Two could play at that game. I slipped my jacket off; the camisole I was wearing underneath was silk. I arched my back a little to push out my chest and crossed my legs under the steering wheel as best I could. When he opened the door this time, he just stared at my legs, my heels, and me. I had the money ready, and as I passed it to him, he took hold of my hand and kissed it. I pulled it away, shocked but secretly thrilled at the spark I’d felt.
I thought of him again that night as I lay in bed. My fingers may have strayed a little as I indulged my fantasy. On Friday, I was back again. It was almost six o’clock. They were almost closing. I couldn’t see him until the end when he came out of the lockup. He was obviously on his way home, wherever that was. He had jeans, a T-shirt and a baseball cap over his dark hair. He noticed the car, and just as I was paying his friend, he opened the door and slipped in beside me. I looked shocked.
His friend whispered, “Vasil likes you. He thinks about you. He’s lonely. You are lonely, too. Together, not lonely.”
I turned and looked at Vasil, and he smiled at me. “We go home. We go together. We enjoy.”
He smiles at me again, and I can’t help but smile back. My fantasy is about to come true.
Vasil was Bulgarian. He had very little English, but what he had, he used well. I should have been afraid. A strange man in my house. So dangerous, but there was something about his calmness that made me feel safe. I knew he wouldn’t hurt me.
We managed to have a conversation of sorts. I poured him a beer, one that Glenn had left behind. I made us some pasta. I asked him lots of questions, and he answered them when he understood. I learnt that he was twenty-six, much older than he looked. Eventually, though, the time had come to stop talking.
He placed his fingers on my lips and said, “You would like fuck now?”
I sprayed my wine over the dining table, “Vasil, you don’t say that to a lady.”
He looked confused, “Stoyen, my friend, you met him; he says you want fuck me?”
“Yes, Stoyen is probably right, but you don’t use that word. In fact, don’t use any words at all.”
He smiled then and kissed me. It had been so long since I had been kissed or held. I took him by the hand and led him upstairs. I let him undress me; he was in charge now. I was soon standing naked before him. I was worried I might disappoint him. I was so much older than him, but when I saw his smile, I knew he liked what he saw.
“Beautiful lady,” he smiled and bent to kiss my nipples, lick and tease them, and make them hard. When they were engorged, he held them gently between his teeth while flicking them with his tongue. I felt sure I would soon be a puddle of moisture at his feet. I was so wet. His hand teased my other nipple, gently pulling it with his fingers like in my fantasy. He kissed me again as his fingers sought out the source of my need. I needed to be touched there so much. He didn’t disappoint me; it felt like moments until I was a gibbering wreck as I felt his fingers work their magic within me. I felt the heat build as I collapsed on the bed; as his thumb stroked my clit, I came loudly.
“Was good?” smiled Vasil.
“Very good, the best,” I murmured, finding my voice as I tried to catch my breath again.
“Vasil like being best,” he said, slipping off his T-shirt, jeans and socks. I was shocked to see that he wore no underwear. He was a real man with a dark, hairy torso and obviously didn’t manscape. There was something so earthy and sensual about this man in all his natural glory. The thick nest of hair between his legs was offset by his girthy manhood, and unlike Glenn, he was circumcised. It was a real man’s cock, standing proud, standing proud for me. He paused momentarily while I admired him. The post-orgasmic flush on my chest spread to my face as I realised I was caught appreciating him.
He crawled onto the bed, kissing my face and neck as he held me tight. He kissed down my body until his handsome face was buried between my legs. I had missed this so much when Glenn left. I missed him loving me like this. He leaned back and smiled at me. That devastating smile. He gently rolled me over until I was face down. He nuzzled his face between the cheeks of my bottom, moving his head from side to side, mumbling his unintelligible approval. Glenn had never done it like this. Vasil lifted up my bottom so that I was on my knees, and he licked me from behind, squeezing my buttocks as he did so.
Then, without warning, he started stabbing his tongue into my pussy over and over again. He was fucking me with his tongue. Glenn had certainly never done it like this. As he did it, he slowly caressed my clit again. It was all too much for me. I felt wanton. I felt dirty, and I felt fantastic. All my life, I tried to do the right thing, work hard, and be a good wife to Glenn. This, though, was for me. A whole new side of me was opening up, an indecent, shameless side of me. It took a virtual stranger, a handsome, younger stranger, to unlock this need in me. These thoughts only heightened the intensity of my pleasure. Vasil, licking, humming and stroking at my core gave me more intense pleasure than I’d ever known. Climaxing, I collapsed back on the bed; Vasil lay beside me, gently running his fingers along my spine as I came back down to earth.
“Beautiful,” he murmured as I rolled over to face him and reached down to hold his erection. As I kissed him, I moved my hand up and down his cock twisting it and turning it as he growled in my ear. It was so hard and thick but velvety smooth. I bent down to suck him in, and he worked his fingers back into me as I did. I took him in deeper and gently rolled his balls in my hand. I heard him moan again as I used my hand, lips and tongue to pleasure him. He tasted of soap and man, a real man. Suddenly, he rolled me over and placed himself at my entrance.
“Go slowly,” I begged. It’s been a while.” He lightly kissed my cheek as he eased himself into me. He was gentle but so thick he moved carefully until he was fully inside of me, pausing for a second as I adjusted to his girth – to feeling full. He began to move within me slowly. He was affectionate, stroking my hair and face as he thrust within me. I knew this was a one-off; how could it be anything else? Yet he made me feel loved, wanted and desired. It was a powerful combination.
He was fulfilling a need I had lost in the months since my divorce. I needed this, and I needed him. As he began to move faster within me, I thought he was about to finish. Yet he suddenly pulled out of me. I felt empty, bereft until I realised he had moved down the bed to taste me again. No man had ever done that to me once he had already entered me. It was different; it was exciting. I began to peak again as he lifted my legs over one shoulder, kissing and licking my crossed ankles and stroking my legs as he drove himself inside me again. With that one thrust, he once again pushed me over the brink. Finally, he, too, was spent as I felt him swell inside me and flood me with his warmth. We lay together, cuddling afterwards. It was so loving, yet I was under no illusions. I knew it was just a sensual moment in time. I couldn’t regret it, wouldn’t regret it. I must have dosed for a while until I felt a kiss on my forehead.
“Vasil, say goodbye now. Thank you, beautiful lady.”
“Thank you. Vasil. You are beautiful, too.”
He laughed and paused as he looked back at me and smiled. “Good?” he asked.
“Very good,” I smiled. He carefully closed the door. I slipped out of bed and stood at the top of the stairs to watch him leave. I knew I wouldn’t see him again.
I waited a few months before I went back to the car wash. It was all gone, just a bare forecourt. They had moved on; perhaps they had moved home. I knew I was pregnant by then. It turned out that the happiness he had given me that night would last forever. I thought I should tell him. I didn’t want or need anything from him, but I felt he should know about the twins. Two boys, they had already told me.
One day, when my boys are older, I will tell them about their father. Maybe they would want to find him, maybe not. I’ll let them know how lovely he was, how he gave me the greatest gift I’d ever had – the family I’d always wanted.
