MAXIMUS

I had spent the night in my car. For a few hours I drove around, ate something at a roadside stall, bought a bottle of spirits and parked up on a side street near an industrial waste dump. It was dreary and wet; I flipped the seat and slumped back, drinking and thinking. I was angry but uncertain. I could not base my whole future on the testimony of a little child in a silly mood. I owed Uma so much more than that.

She was my wife. My love. She had never let me down over the years. Why should I be so ready to believe that she might have done so now? Was there anything in her recent behaviour to make me doubt? The matter of the job had been a disappointment, true, but, frankly, I could understand her reservation in telling me. I am not an easy man to live with and sometimes I bludgeon her into things. Although I hate to see it in myself, I intimidate her, too, and use my will to bend her to me. I am no innocent in that particular affair.

Evening turned to night, deep night, and then to dawn. I was stiff and cold, bitter mouthed and unwashed, the smell of stale alcohol on my breath. I found a working men's café full of truck drivers and early morning shift workers. I ate a greasy stomach-churning breakfast and made a crude attempt to freshen up in the Men's room, ignoring the stares of men who seemed to think a man washing was some sort of sign of his dubious sexuality. I almost wished one of them had called me on it.  I was in a mood where an unleashing of some of my pent up energy would have been a much appreciated boon.

I drove back towards home with the germ of a plan forming in my mind. I would see how she spent her day. She had to be worried where I was - what would she do first? If he really was her lover she would run to him...if she didn't, then she was innocent. Parking my car in a lane across the road from our street, I slunk down in the car seat and watched.

Mid-morning I saw her leave, Lily by the hand; she walked to our neighbour's house and handed her over. The women chatted a while and then Uma left, forsaking her car, and strolling along towards the high street and the tube station. I drove slowly and parked on the forecourt, trailing her towards the ticket booth. I bought a ticket in the machine- end of the line- and hurried after her as she hit the escalator down to the track. I lingered by the tunnel until the train arrived and watched her enter, take a seat and found one for myself in the next carriage.

She was dressed exquisitely in a suit I love her to wear- a deep rich burgundy, like fine wine, the colour of emperors. It framed her slenderness and accentuated her stately dancer's poise. Her hair was knotted in a jeweled comb; her legs were shimmering with pale silk eased into elegant fragile shoes. The day was cold but apart from her leather gloves she was not dressed for the climate or time of year. Vanity? Seduction? Recklessness? I watched other people around her observing as she stared into space, unaware of herself. Men looked her up and down, women gave her envious stares, I instinctively guarded her, even now- no one will touch her when I am near.

She stood up and exited at Hyde Park Corner. Not going to the Museum then, apparently. Jumping off just as the doors were about to close, I kept a distance as I followed her through the abrasive and unfriendly crowds of people, weaving my way in and out of the oncoming commuters to keep her in my sights. Out in the daylight, she set off towards Park Lane at a brisk walk, looking neither to the right nor left, not the usual way she dawdles if she is shopping or just browsing. I could see that she was heading for an appointment and I watched with dread. It was as if my worse nightmare was unfolding before my eyes.

Approaching a new and luxurious hotel, I saw her check her watch and look about her in an almost surreptitious fashion. Straightening her shoulders as if readying herself for a task, she ran lightly up the entrance steps and into the hallowed portals of The Metropolitan. I knew the place- it was the 'in' hotel at the moment and its Met bar was a place frequented by public figures from all walks of life. The kind of place to see and be seen. Now who would she know in a place like that?

I had my answer soon enough. She walked straight for the bar itself and her appointment. Terry Thorne was standing there, greeted her with a kiss and rested his hands lightly on her hips, as a man does when he has knowledge of a woman's body. I recognised it then.

Perhaps I should have left and spared myself the rest. But the mind has a lurid fascination even for that which is obscene and foul to its eyes. Horror pulls one in and some prurient need to feast on one's own sores, to fan the flames of anger, drives one. I took a seat across the room in a secluded area and watched my wife make love to another man.

Their heads were close as they whispered. He held her hand. She leaned against him. He lit her cigarette and moved to sit pressed against her while she buried her head against his chest. Any fool could see that this was a romantic tryst - and it was not the first time they had met. I wondered then if he had fucked her on our bed. Perhaps when Lily took a nap in the afternoon? I swallowed and tasted bile. Fury rose in my chest like floodwater on a thundering river, steadily piling strain upon the already crumbling banks.

I saw her stand up and then she pressed herself against him even closer-in public view, where everyone could see her immorality. He stood up and embraced her; they left wrapped up in each other's arms. It was too much and I got to my feet, slamming the table and turning over a chair, ready to follow them and stop this obscenity. They would both pay for their betrayal.

"Excuse me, sir...I'll have to ask you to leave...you're not wearing a tie...house rules..."

"What?" 

A man in a uniform blocked my path. "You are improperly attired for this establishment and furthermore...it appears you are rather the worse for wear...it would be easier on us all if you simply left quietly, sir."

I watched them leave the room and saw him swing her into his arms, her head resting on his shoulder. Could there be anymore open acknowledgment of intent than that?

"Get out of my way!" I pushed him roughly and went after them but had only gone a few paces before several burly men appeared and proceeded to hustle me towards the main entrance. I could have taken them all- was sorely tempted to do so- but sense prevailed. How far would I get? Police would be called. My career would suffer. And they would still carry on regardless, making a cuckold out of me.

With one thrust, I shook them all from me and backed towards the door. "Leave me alone! Touch me again and you will be sorry..." I snarled.  Turning on my heel, I stumbled out.

Back on the street, I stood unable to tear myself away. They were inside as I lingered on the pavement, stripping off each other's clothes even now, touching, kissing, intimacies, sex...I groaned as if I had been pierced with a sword, the pain much worse than any mortal blow. I had known such agony before but then other men had inflicted it upon me, my wife and family- how much greater when the tormentor is the woman that you love herself?

Somehow I staggered across the road and found myself in the Park, slumped on a bench, my eyes still rooted to the imposing building, as if behind every window a fresh horror lurked for me. I don't know how long I sat there, dazed and shattered, no clarity of thought possible. And then a flash of burgundy caught my eye. That colour. Rich and sensuous. The imperial colour. On a balcony far above me.

Uma was leaning looking out, but not aware of me. Why should she be? I was just one of the dozens of people at her feet, while she strode the heights of Olympus and crushed mere mortals beneath her heel. She had what she wanted now. He joined her on the balcony, covered her, kissed her neck; I watched her swivel in his arms and saw their passion. They disappeared inside to their debauchery while I sat on in the light drizzle- it felt to me that the whole world was weeping at my plight.

 

 

UMA

He pulled me back inside the room and sat on the edge of the bed; I stood between his parted legs and he circled my waist, his head against my breast. It was a curiously unexpected moment of tenderness and vulnerability. I held him to myself and bent to kiss his head as a mother might do to a child. I'm not sure what was in his mind- it was almost as if he was asking my forgiveness. Who was I to demand that of him?

I stepped away and our hands touched; we brushed fingertips and he let me go. While he bent down to remove his shoes and socks, I wandered over to the CD player and browsed some discs. I found something that struck me as curiously appropriate and slipped it onto the machine.

Spinning round, catching him watching me as he pulled off his tie, his neck flexing and his chin raised, I began to strut slowly towards him, unbuttoning the clasps of my blouse. As I did, I sang the words of the song softly to him:

 

 

He stood up and came towards me removing his own shirt and then the undershirt he wore; I shrugged off mine and then my bra. Our bodies pressed against each other- naked flesh to naked flesh, soft breast to hard muscle, smooth whiteness against hairy skin. Our eyes met, we smiled, and we danced...

 

 

His fingers intertwined with mine and we circled, heads pressed together, no wish to hurry the moment. This was all we would ever have. We would savour every instant. It was as if we just wanted to be inside each other's souls for a moment so that a trace of ourselves would linger there for all time. A shadow. The wing of an angel, glancing across our vision for an instant. A feeling to linger even if never felt again.

 

 

"Angel," he whispered as his lips took mine and we kissed, our arms wrapped round each other's waist, moving softly round and round the room.

 

 

His hands ran through my hair and wound it into his fist; he gently tugged and I bared my neck, the touch of his wet kiss on my exposed throat bringing a hiss from my lips. Every tiny action that he made registered on my brain. I remember thinking in some still active part of my consciousness: I must remember this. I must remember this. I must remember this... He returned to my lips, kissing deeper, a little wilder, searching, his desire beginning to replace the tender gentle touch. I felt his hands slip to my butt and ease down the zip of my skirt to let it fall at my feet. I stepped away and he backed off. He wanted to see.

I was naked apart from a tiny scrap of silk and lace, a garter and stockings. Pushing lightly on his chest, I forced him to sit back down, removed each stocking and the belt as his hands smoothed up and down my legs. Then I returned to stand between his parted thighs; he pressed against mine as he cupped my breasts and kissed each hard-tipped nipple. His fingers slid the remaining covering from me and I let him take charge, moving back while he pushed them down my legs and kissed my mound. Soft. Erotic. Indescribably tender. He had memories to store as well.

I knelt and put my fingers on his belt, unfastened, unzipped, he raised himself so I could slip his trousers to the floor and ease off his shorts, free the straining erection from its discomfort, watch his face as I ran a forefinger from shaft to tip: his turn to hiss. This time I treated his penis with reverence, not frenzied lust. I kissed its purple swollen head and let a pearl ooze out onto my tongue, ran it round my lips and savoured it like vintage wine. His taste. Never again to be mine. I would not forget it.

Lightly, his hands caressing my upper arms, he brought me to my feet and sat me on his knee; I slid down in my own juice to rest my soft folds against his hardness as we kissed some more, grinding against each other, moaning deep in our throats at the sensation of denial, my limbs enfolding him.

I felt him lift me up, hands on my hips and bring me to his cock, he whispered: "Help me...I have to..." but no more. I was already there and he was already pushing and I had already sunk down hard, gasping at the pleasure-pain of his penetration of my body. My knees pressed against his thighs as I worked down on his upwards thrust. It was almost too much to bear- the thick hard pressure against my tender walls, the fluttering resistance as I tightened and gripped him, the ache that seemed to press hard on my womb at his size and depth, bruising, breaking, loving....

"Too much?"

"NO! YES! Oh God...don't stop...don't stop..."

He fell back, I rose above him and writhed, forcing myself, gasping on each downward stroke, imagining I could take no more, but still going back again and again. He cupped my buttocks and gently massaged in the rhythm of his rutting. I stared at him, eyes fixed on me, panting, struggling...

"Christ...you are so beautiful..." A hand skimmed around my hip and a thumb traced the faded silver thread of a mark left from my pregnancy. I reached and fingered a scar that had gouged a pit above his left hip. Flaws. What takes perfection and improves on it? The signs of a life lived to the full.

"Terry...I want you so much...I can't bear the pleasure..."

I fell upon him and we kissed, rolling over, still locked inside each other, the sudden jarring as he, now on top, pressed his full weight on me before taking the strain on his upper arms. Now he was in control, had more leverage, could bear down on me. He dragged my leg over his hip, further up to his waist, leaned to the side, found an even deeper purchase; I heard my own sob. One hand slipped between our bodies- he now had all his weight on just one arm and with a deft but gentle touch he flickered at my clitoris as he slowly fucked me. Our eyes met. A flicker of a smile. His soft deep murmur: "Come for me...angel..."

It was his voice that was the final touch. The fire welled up and overflowed, spilled from his fingers to my grasping vagina, radiated to my womb, through my nerve ends, swam in my bloodstream, to each throbbing nipple, down each limb, racing towards my brain to emerge in a cry of pure joy...and then to be echoed in his shudder, groan, muttered strands of disjointed thought. And the warm wet pumping of his semen like a shower of summer rain on a parched garden.

Silence. 

Flickering eyelids.

Feel of flesh, warm and sticky.

Heat.

Sweat.

Hair damp.

Limbs entwined.

Breath.

Hearts beating.

Awareness.

"God...I thought I died and went to heaven."

"Listen."

The CD had been playing all along. The silence had been in my head. I listened.

 

 

"Why did they hide their wings? In shame?"

"No...they couldn't stand to be reflected in our glory."

 

 

"You are an incurable romantic, you know that?"

"'fraid so. You gonna hold it against me?"

"Yes...all afternoon..."

We lay in the sheets, drank a little wine, ate fruit and cheese...got crumbs everywhere...talked, just about all sorts of things. About growing up and choices we had made, people we had known, times we had had. A few hours in which we had to live a lifetime. Memories just poured out. Some bad. Some good. Some trivial. Some profound. You know, that was the most intimate thing we did. Bare our souls. You can't offer someone more of yourself than that.

We dozed for a while. We woke with a start. No time to lose for such idle slumber. He reached for me and we came together again. Half awake, half asleep. Beginning to know the other's weaknesses and strengths Smiling ...giggling ... teasing...suddenly serious...a few tears... "Hey...none of that...I want to remember you with that smile..." But I had seen the shadow in his eyes, too. The clock was ticking, time was unforgiving, inexorably moving forward. You can't stop it. We thought we could kidnap it. But it demands a ransom of its own in the end.

"I have to go...I have to go to Lily...find Max...I just have to..."

"I know...a little longer? Let's shower...I want to touch you...until the last moment..."

"You say such things...I won't forget this, Terry...ever...you know that?"

"Then it was worth the risk. Come on...let's clean up..."

Holding each other beneath the torrent of warm water. I placed my cheek against his chest. I recall the bottles of shampoo and shower gel lined up in an alcove cut into the marble surface of the wall. I don't know why that stays in my mind. There was a soap dish cut into the space in front shaped like a large marble shell. I put my hand on it and felt the ridges. Somehow every texture had its place in the picture I was painting in my head.

He washed me. I washed him. Grooming each other. That is sensual. Erotic. Intimate. He shampooed my hair, massaging my scalp with his strong fingers- he is surprisingly gentle for a man. I reached up and did the same for him. His hair curled in the steam. I smiled. There is something wayward about that which is contrary to his debonair image. There is a scar over his right eye. He is self- conscious about it. I kissed my fingertip and touched it, made it better.

My hands thick with foam soaped his cock; I eased back his skin and lathered before pulling it over again. I knew he would harden. He did not let me down. I knelt down while he rinsed my hair and I fellated him until he backed against the cool surface of the marble and simply held my dripping curls in his fingers and rocked back and forth into my mouth. I wanted him to come. I wanted to drink of him. Every man has his own unique taste. I would not forgo his. He came, crooning softly, sweet things, crude things, whatever- they all sounded like honey to me.

He slithered down to the floor, raised and tilted me onto the marble seat at the end of the shower cubicle. I lay back, watched him as he sat cross-legged, unashamed, his cock plumply displayed, dying back to its still-impressive softness and then bent to kiss me. His hands pushed my legs apart, his fingers around my ankles and I lay there open and proud. I was sore and swollen; his breath blew a cool balm against the now-red folds as he kissed and then caressed with his tongue. Smooth, strokes, long lazy glide, flickering, tasting, sensing, smelling, rubbing, hard and now soft, rough and now tender, biting and gentling. I felt the dancing light of another faint cross my vision but this time it was not panic that provoked it- it was utter ecstasy. I gripped his arms, squeezed hard and willed myself to stay with him- and then he took me there. White light- and I was in his arms on the floor, nestling in between his legs and he held me until I was calm again.

We dried each other in warm towels, laughed and played with the variety of beauty products arrayed in baskets- he had never even opened any of them before. He took the hair dryer and blew it over my hair, teasing strands and asking me what was his future in the hairdressing business? I dragged it from him and ran it over his unruly curls. While I saw to my own hair, he sat on the edge of the bath and we chatted some more, no mention of the soon- to-come parting. He watched as I reapplied makeup. I sat there while he shaved and sorted his own simple beauty routine. Cologne, bit of hair gel and brush teeth. Somehow the pretence of shared domesticity was important to us both.

Back in the room we gathered up each other's clothes and helped each other dress. I fastened his tie and put his cufflinks on for him; he zipped up my skirt and helped me with my jacket. We fussed and primped until we could find nothing else to do, no other excuse to hold back.

"I have to go, Terry."

"I know. Just go. Easier that way."

"There's so many things I haven't said..."

"No, there aren't. I know. You know. Let's not make it harder?"

One last gentle kiss. A smile. I flick his nose. He tweaked my chin. I winked. He nodded and pushed me softly towards the door. I turned.

"...That door was closed."

His voice was suddenly different. Harder. An edge of panic that did not seem like him.

"What?"

"I closed the door. Just in case...chambermaid or something..."

"You mean a maid came in? While we were...."

"Fuck!" He had walked through and stopped dead. His hands went to his head and he rocked slightly back on his heels. "Fuck. FUCK!"

"Terry?" I ran past him to see what was making him shout. There was a suitcase on the carpet. Air France tag. "I don't understand...."

One word. Then I understood. 

"Ann."

 

To Part Eight

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