Chapter One – Undone
Everyone has something to hide, something that they would prefer not ever to be shared with the outside world. For the majority of people, these will be small and relatively inconsequential little white lies, a speeding ticket or possibly a false insurance claim. These would cause slight embarrassment if they were ever uncovered, but nothing more.
Then there are the significant ones.
That one isolated moment after a Christmas get-together is never too far from Gordon Woodman’s thoughts, the one with a girl whose name he can’t remember, that is if he ever knew it in the first place.
It was the day before Christmas Eve. The Cross Keys pub on the market square was crowded with revellers all finishing work for the Christmas break. She was a clerk for an insurance company; he was a plumber for a local building firm.
As is common in these circumstances, misplaced confidence plays a significant role, fueled by the occasion and alcohol. She was young, twenty-five years younger than him, the same age as his daughter. She had blond hair, an infectious personality and an eye-catching figure that could best be described as buxom or perhaps voluptuous.
The instant she saw him standing with a large group of work colleagues, she knew exactly what she wanted, and exactly how she was going to get it. How many men, when confronted with this opportunity, would feel the same? With his ego sufficiently inflated, he was flattered by her attention; he was hooked.
At 22:40, he had messaged his wife to meet him in the car park. Unbeknownst to him, the girl with the blond hair and large breasts had followed him outside.
“No Christmas kiss?” she had said, placing her arms around his neck, “or was there something else that you wanted?”
He can still recall the chill in the cold December night air; the uneasy feeling of aroused excitement fused with a mild sense of anxiety lingering underneath. It was she who guided him to a secluded area, away from passersby and the CCTV cameras.
He noticeably shivered as she kissed him, open-mouthed, her tongue finding his, her hand dropping between his legs, hurriedly unzipping the fly and unbuttoning his black jeans. Soon her hand was inside, drawing a knowing smile as the caress of her fingers rapidly encouraged him to his full length. In return, his right hand delved inside the top of her dress, feeling the soft skin of her warm, plump breasts, tasting her vodka and lemonade kisses on his lips.
Remarkably, even while his marriage was being severely tested, his addled brain found a space mentally to work out the timings. He assessed the mileage and probable traffic conditions, and if his basic calculations were correct, then there was a maximum of ten minutes before his wife’s black BMW 5 Series would arrive.
Everything moved so incredibly quickly, happening before his eyes like he was viewing it from the outside looking in at someone else. He watched her turn away from him and bend her body over the bonnet of a blue Renault Cleo, her face pressed down against the cold, hard steel, allowing her free hands to raise the hem of her short red Christmas dress, revealing black stocking tops, suspenders and her incredibly enticing bare white bottom.
Almost on autopilot, his left hand dragged the thin strip of her nylon thong to one side, placing his erect cock against her opening with his right, entering not only the moment of no return, but one that still haunts him to this day.
It lasted barely forty-five seconds, this act of betrayal. The instant he felt his balls tighten, the millisecond between that occurrence and his orgasm, shattering any semblance of rational thought, the wave of guilt that washed over him was crushing.
Afterwards, he was numb. Leaning back on a white Ford transit van, he stared at the girl as she straightened her dress down over her thighs and heaved her breasts back under cover. He zipped himself back up, as she gave him one last kiss and wished him a merry Christmas before returning to the pub. In less than five minutes, he had created a memory that would stay with him for the rest of his life.
—————
Or maybe it is that regretful holiday shag with Alan from Newcastle. It began with a boozy Greek night in Argassi town, where the local wine was cheap and the waiters ensured that the glasses were quickly refilled.
Towards the end of the evening, she had felt his hand on her naked thigh. At first she had rejected him by pushing it away, but he persevered. When his hand returned twenty minutes later, she felt the warm twinge of immoral excitement course through her veins and made the conscious choice not to push him away.
He was the polar opposite of her quiet, considerate husband. An ex-royal marine, he was all tattoos and bawdy jokes. He had arrived at the hotel three days before and was difficult to miss with his wide-shouldered confidence and almost obscenely tight black swimming shorts.
She remained seated at the long table with its light blue tablecloth, looking across at her oblivious husband who sat opposite. As she felt the warm hand inch under her light, knee-length summer dress, she felt a glow snake up her neck, spreading across the cheeks of her face.
Again, she smiled absentmindedly across the table at her husband, their eyes locking, while her legs voluntarily parted just enough to allow fingers to crawl higher and touch her white cotton knickers, then secretly creep inside.
She had never done anything like this before, and she never would again. The very thought now conjures a horrifying scenario in her mind of being discovered, the excruciating shame and humiliation.
There are stolen moments she would stare into the middle distance, reliving the moment when his thick middle finger penetrated her, relishing the thrill and sinfulness of the act being conducted so publicly. The all-consuming exhilaration of the indecency as his finger circled her clitoris, basking in the depravity. It was so wrong, but she felt powerless to intervene.
Later that night, she had gone to his room, and she could still visualise herself sitting on the edge of his bed, watching him pull his shirt over his head, then unbuttoning his cream chino shorts, recalling the comment made by a woman a day or so earlier as he walked past them near the pool.
“My god,” she had said, staring over the rim of her sunglasses and top of her book, “you can even tell what religion he is.”
He wore no underwear, his thick, flaccid penis hanging down between his legs. In her thoughts, she can clearly picture him standing naked and slightly sunburned before her, not two metres from where she was sitting, and hear him ask her if she was sure that she wanted to do this.
Her reply was silent and immediate as she reached behind her back and unzipped her dress. Even through the alcoholic haze caused by the white wine and a number of glasses of ouzo, she could hear a voice somewhere in the back of her mind telling her that what she was doing was a mistake.
On the other side of the thin wall, in the room next to his, she could hear the distinctive sound of her husband snoring. She could hear him as this man mounted her, his substantial arms pushing her legs apart, entering her in one swift movement, feeling the slight sting as her body struggled to adjust to a size much larger than she was accustomed to.
The only sound in the room was his breath in her ear, and the slap of his thighs on hers. The room was stifling and uncomfortably airless, and tears of sweat dripped from her forehead, matting in her hair. He was strong, forceful and inconsiderate; any pleasure that she was to gain would be as a byproduct rather than an objective.
Her legs separated then wrapped themselves around his waist, drawing him in, gaining gratification from the metronomic assault, paired with the relentless drag of his cock on to her now exposed and inflamed sex.
“Does he fuck you like this?” he grunted, a knowing, devious smile growing on his lips. His hands grabbed her arms, pinning them above her head, the curious sensation of suddenly being open and exposed, drawing an unbounded sense of abandonment, her breasts dancing free.
“No,” she breathlessly answered, and this was true. Her husband was a kind, thoughtful man, always gentle and attentive to her needs. He didn’t deserve this; he didn’t deserve to be betrayed.
“I thought so. How does it feel?”
“Good,” she struggled to mutter, followed by, “oh I’m, I’m…” The orgasm arrived violently and was as mind-shattering as it was unexpected. She sensed her mouth opening as she garbled indecipherable words while looking up into this man’s face, seeing his lips move while not understanding a word, his hips savagely rutting her as she helplessly lay under him.
The attack on her senses lasted a little longer, possibly two minutes, then, with the buzz in her head receding, she gradually began to make sense of what he was saying, comprehending the words, understanding that he was asking her where she wanted him to cum.
Her shameful response, and one that she would live to regret, had been to pull him in, her hands gripping his meaty buttocks, her fingernails raking the black tattoo of a dagger on his left thigh.
The memory of feeling his hot cum explode inside her still brings a shiver of shame for her behaviour. Looking down her naked body, she gazed disbelieving and vulnerable, seeing his thick cock coated with their fluids, his hand raking through her hair as he withdrew, then rolled off her and onto the bed.
A week after they had returned home, she had a suspicion; three weeks later, the pregnancy kit confirmed her worst fears. Her unsuspecting husband was ecstatic at the news, of course he was; he finally knew he was going to be a father after five years of disappointment.
That was twenty-two years ago, and she is reminded of that one night on a daily basis. She, and she alone, knew the true identity of the father. She can pinpoint the exact moment, almost to the minute. Her son is a constant reminder; she can see the striking similarities in his appearance, the dark hazel eyes, crooked smile and distinctive physical attributes.
—————
And that now brings us to me.
We all hide something, and I hid mine successfully for over thirty years; actually, I can no longer remember a time when it wasn’t there; I wear my shame like an old coat. I always knew that if my past was ever made public, then the consequences could be catastrophic, not only for me and my career, but for my family. It would lead to scandal, humiliation and ruin.
Occasionally, a light into this dark part of my life would unexpectedly present itself. It could be something innocuous, hearing a certain song on the radio, or detecting a familiar odour in the air. It may only be fleeting, but it would momentarily take me back to that time, to that house, to those people, to that room.
Nothing lasts forever; in the end, the truth will always come out.
It was a Sunday afternoon in May. My husband and son were watching their beloved Fulham at Craven Cottage. It was the last match of another uneventful season. My daughter was away for the weekend, staying with a friend and her family over the bank holiday weekend.
I was taking advantage of the temporary peace and quiet to sit out on our back patio, enjoying the sun, allowing the first warm rays of summer to enliven my body, while catching up with paperwork.
And then it happened.
I had played this moment over and over in my head so many times. There was a period about ten years ago where I would wake in the middle of the night, my mind panicked. But somehow, I thought it would be different.
At first, I ignored the annoying ping from my phone; I had left it charging on the worktop in the kitchen. When it repeated, it exasperatingly piqued an interest in me. It was 16:25, so I knew it couldn’t be my husband. Their match had only just begun, and he had warned me that they would be late back. It was very possible that it could be about the school.
In the event it was neither. It was a short, cryptic message, one which I understood immediately. It’s strange how life can be; in the blink of an eye, your whole world could be turned upside down. I stared down at the screen of my phone, at the message, and realised instantly that I was undone.
Unknown – #yourdirtylittlesecret
