"Afterward" By H. Jekyll * * * * * This story presents a woman's reminiscence of an incident from her affair. There is intercourse and oral sex, a little unintentional cream-pie, and she is fucked by two different men. One of them her husband. So you see, it's really pretty boring. This was first published at Ruthie's Club (www.ruthiesclub.com), where a formatted version can be found. Yes you can repost it, to any site that does not require payment, if you give me full attribution. Otherwise, ask me nicely and offer me money. Please mail comments to h_jekyll2000@yahoo.com. * * * * * "Afterward" By H. Jekyll It was the first time. No, not the first time. She wants to be accurate. It was the first time after they knew they were going to have an affair instead of just an encounter. Long afterward, it remains in place for her, not as narrative, not as full sentences. No, it remains as images and fragments of scenes and isolated words. Was it worth it? It cost her so much. At least there are memories. She still has them. Such as? Such as how she told her husband she was ill and would stay home. Not badly ill, no dear, just a little indisposed and headachy. You know. No, I don't need to see the doctor. I'll call you later. She remembers light. The sun rising to an almost cloudless sky, shining pink light, then white, on the house, light that flitted into the light interior and reflected off furniture and glass knick-knacks, that filtered into her shower while she prepared herself for her lover. There's an image, as if she's looking over her shoulder as she washes her body, washes her vagina especially carefully, then dries herself in front of the mirror with a massive ivory-colored towel. She inspected herself. She shook her head during this. I always shake my head when I look at myself, don't I? Why do they like how I look? She'd opened a bottle of cologne and rubbed cologne onto her vaginal lips, rubbed it thoroughly, even made herself wet. Wait! She'd made herself stop, taken a breath, and finally gone on to her nipples and underarms and behind her ears. Brightness. Yes, the sun in the window behind her was so bright she'd had to lower the blinds to view herself. 8:00 a.m. Time to open the garage door so he could drive right in. She actually doesn't remember opening the door. How had he gotten this time free? She never knew, never asked him, and it didn't really matter, did it? She remembers flitting about the house in only her light, silk robe, the red, patterned one that shows her pubic hair if she leaves it untied, but covers her nipples. She still has that robe. Does she remember hearing the car in the garage? Or running down the stairs so that the robe opened entirely in her breeze, her pale, dancer's body contrasting with the robe as she opened the door to the garage and called out: "Darling!" The garage door was still open. What if someone had been walking a dog? *** She sometimes wonders what he remembers, if he plays back the sight of her in the doorway, her body, the robe masking so little, the sound of her "darling." Does he miss her? Then: going together up the stairs, kissing and feeling her, lifting her and carrying her to the bed. Sucking on each others' tongues, pulling down his pants, playing with his penis. She especially remembers playing with his penis. It was so different from her husband's, the only other one she'd known well. He would lie quietly and watch, while she caressed it, tickling his balls and his shaft, loving the way it contracted and moved under her hands. She would take the head in her mouth and lick around the ridge and suck, while her hands played. She wanted to taste him and keep his taste with her for afterwards. She'd sit back on her ankles and play with his balls and inner thighs, tickling both so that he had to work not to squirm. There was no hurry. His eyes were mostly closed by now and she recalls his sharp breaths. She had lovely views of him pulling his head back, the muscles and tendons of his neck standing out against the skin. She misses that. It seems to be the worst thing, missing that. It comes up out of the blue. It was in this large, white, upstairs bedroom, the one she still lives in, made for something like worship. Three windows went from the floor almost to the ceiling, with half-moon tops, so light flooded in. She'd always made love in a twilight world, but he wanted every part of her illuminated. The blinds were completely open and someone could have spied on them, had someone been at home and been standing behind just the right window. They could occasionally even have been seen from the street. The spy would have seen the two wrestle among twisted bedclothes, kneel over each other, pleasure each other. Maybe she'd rummage to find binoculars, the ones her family used for bird-watching, and spend the morning trying to see more, watching them while she pleasured herself, making herself exquisitely horny, planning how she would seduce her husband when he got home. From those windows the couple could see the trees and houses and the sky, the sun dropping light like fairy dust across the landscape. *** There's a long part that only she could remember because he never knew at all. Five minutes after he left. Maybe only three. In any event before she'd had time to bathe. How she heard the car reenter the garage and knew instantly that he couldn't leave her, how she'd grabbed her robe and flown down the stairs, so smitten with this impetuous man who couldn't leave her alone, running to the door to the garage, throwing it open, crying "Darling, you're back!" There was her husband's car, her husband half out of the car, his eyes showing disbelief at her. "What... what are you doing? And why is the garage door open?" The first time to be nearly caught by a spouse. Ah, she remembers that! It's her sharpest memory, so strong it still makes her stomach drop. She had almost pulled robe closed, which would have given everything away, but had stayed her hands just in time. "Oh, I was just feeling so much better, and it's sweet of you to come home early for me." She had waited for him to close the garage door, then stepped down into the garage to kiss him. Would he smell sex on her, or cologne? His arm had gone around her waist, drawing her close, trapping her but not knowing it was a trap. He had kissed her, his tongue gliding across her tongue, the one that had caressed her lover's penis, that could still taste him. Then he'd pushed open the robe to caress a nipple, somehow missing her lover's tiny red bite mark. She remembers how she pushed him back and looked up into his face, making the sweetest look she could manage, and said, "Let me get myself ready. I'll only be a second." That was a lie, of course. She'd stayed as long as she could in the bathroom, washing off the cologne at the sink and trying to get rid of all signs of semen, hoping there wasn't still more that would seep during foreplay, because so much must still be inside her. She knew she could play act at fucking, fake an orgasm. When she'd come into the bedroom he was naked on the bed, lying there on his back with his arms crossed behind his head, his penis up and ready. She'd known what he wanted her to do. Remember. Bring it back. Try to bring back the details, the time before it all crashed. At that moment she'd moved as in a dream, trying to feel that it wasn't really her, knelt by him and kissed, not wanting to do it. Now it's not a dream but a memory. I open my mouth to take his tongue. He pushes it deeply and I suck it like a penis. I take his real penis in my hand, touching it, brushing fingers along it from his balls up to the head, lightly over the head, stroking it over and over. His erection. She couldn't help contrasting it with her lover's. She'd wanted to separate herself from it, to get it over with, but she hadn't come all the way down yet and there was this penis in her hand, so she felt that stirring while she sucked his tongue and stroked him. No, no, not this. Please not this. By now she both wanted him to fuck her and didn't. Then, when he'd pushed two fingers up into her and begun masturbating her, she'd grown wetter and slipperier than she already was. Sloppy seconds, she thought. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! He'll be able to tell! But he couldn't. She'd panted into his mouth during their kisses. He tasted different than her lover, and this difference made everything nastier, so she'd gotten get higher. He'd moved her over, to lie down, and had crawled between her legs and begun licking and sucking her vagina, swallowing everything. God no! Don't do that! It's so dirty! She'd exploded. She remembers how it wracked her, so when he finally began to fuck she fucked harder and faster to get it again, growling and panting with her husband, and then she'd come again, without needing the vibrator, right after he'd begun to come. It was the best sex they'd had in a long time. For several minutes she'd lain under him, separated only by their sweat, both of them breathing hard, their breath slowing, gentling. Then they'd kissed some more and talked affectionately, and finally he'd dozed off. She was left with the terrible knowledge that she'd fucked her husband -- and reveled in it -- so soon after her lover had left. She felt she'd betrayed him. But to this day the memory turns her on. She lay beside him, seepage tickling her, wondering how much came from which man. End.