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Subject: "You Only Live Once" (Part 1) by Rod Stiffener (mf,cheat)
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K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
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Archive name: prop1.txt (mf,wife)
Authors name: rodsti@hotmail.com (Rod Stiffener)
Story Title : You Only Live Once
== == ==
This work is copyrighted to the author. No changes may
be made to this story, and the author information must
remain intact. This work may be copied freely for non-
profit purposes only.
== == ==
************************************************
YOU ONLY LIVE ONCE
PART ONE
************************************************
"Mary, I think you ought to sleep with my husband."
The sluggish overhead fan had completed quite a few
revolutions in the humid tropical air before Mary's synapses
could fully cope with that one. She became aware that her
jaw was sagging, and that her copy of Time magazine had
slipped from her grasp. She had been in the middle of the
cover story, "Nixon re-elected!", when Virginia Allen had
dropped her bombshell.
They were the only two teachers left in the staffroom, as they
had a free period directly after the lunchbreak. Outside,
pupils taking a PE class seemed to shimmer in the heat
coming off the playing field. Mad Englishmen in the
noonday sun.
"And why do you think that?" was the best reply she could
muster.
"He asked me to ask you. He thinks you are spunky."
It was a while since anyone had called her spunky. And why
should they? She was married to a high school science
teacher and had three young children. In fact, this was her
first year back at work since completing her certification year
after training college. They had started a family right away,
having married just after John's graduation. Those were the
days when breeding was considered virtually automatic once
the knot had been tied, and they never stopped to consider
that they had any other option.
But take Virginia. *She* was spunky. Five years younger,
childless, a tall, big-boned red-head. And she had boobs. A
fine handsome woman by anyone's reckoning. What would
her husband want with Mary?
"Um ... really? Me?"
"Yes, you! Derek has a thing about brunettes. And you are
quite huggable and squeezable, you know."
Mary's surprise was starting to turn to shock. This
conversation was real, it was happening, she didn't *think*
she was dreaming any of it. She was very straight-
laced. And hadn't found sex to be any kind of big deal. Why
did people make such a fuss about it? When she saw the
weird and innappropriate behaviour of some of the ex-
patriates in this colonial backwater, sex was usually at the
bottom of it. Why did it drive people so? There must be
something she was missing.
"You don't have a problem with people sleeping with your
husband?"
"Not if he asks me first, and I give the okay."
Mary didn't know what to say, but thought to herself, "How
very ... liberated!"
Although there was only five years between them, it was
really an inter-generational gulf. Virginia had been part of
that Summer of Love thing the magazines often used to write
about. As soon as Mary had become a mother she no longer
bothered with cultural trends, not since the time when Neil
Sedaka was hot news and a certain moptop quartet from
Liverpool was only just beginning to sell records by the
truckload.
"I ... I really don't think so, Ginny."
Virginia patted her on the knee.
"Have a think about it. We re-locate back to Australia in a
month, so you could just sleep with him once and then we're
gone. No possibility of awkward recriminations."
She gathered her things and stood to go.
"Time for Art and Craft, and I have to look after Suzie's class
as well."
Susan Fletcher had a vicious alcohol habit that often caused a
dereliction of her duties. Something had to be done about it;
the other staff couldn't go on carrying her teaching load
forever.
Virginia went, leaving Mary still stunned. She gazed out the
window again, past the kids taking PE, staring unseeingly
across the road, beyond rusty old iron quonset huts built by
the Americans during the war, coconut trees, to the sparkling
blue sea beyond.
This was a weird bunch of people over here. Colonial
Service misfits, who either drank themselves stupid or fucked
themselves stupid. Or both. Petty officials recently evicted
by the independence movements in Tanzania and Kenya, but
who couldn't face going back home.
Or the other clique, idealistic adventurers looking to expand
their horizons through travel, and do their bit for the third
world. For many it was their first experience of being a
white minority in an almost entirely black country. Not
that it brought much hardship in those days. They were part
of the elite, looked up to by the locals. Mutterings about
independence and localisation and the shackles of colonialism
were only just beginning in the capital. People in the outer
islands were practically stoneage, often still pagan. Power
politics came second to high infant mortality and a life
expectancy of about forty-five, in *their* analysis of the
issues of the day.
Mary would have put herself and Virginia into the "adventurer"
category. And up until this moment, she had regarded Virginia
as one of the more normal of her acquaintances. Being pretty
square, she was almost offended by Ginny's blunt proposition.
Almost ... but not quite.
There tickled within her a faint pinprick of fascination with
the very idea of it. Sure, she got fascinated by horror movies
too. But there were one or two braincells inside her (albeit
heavily outnumbered) that seemed to view this particular
"problem" more as "opportunity".
And hey! What girl *doesn't* like hearing herself being
described as "spunky"?
But she couldn't. It really was out of the question. She was
married, fer chrissakes! With three kids, aged ten, eight and
five. John, now a Head of Department for the first time, was
having a ball in this tropical paradise with the small sailing
boat he had just finished building.
She had only ever known one man. And that was the way it
was supposed to be.
Wasn't it?
PAUSE (one of Celeste's pauses), and REWIND
"Come on, Hazel! We'll be late for Mass."
Her step-sister was taking far too long about getting back
into her black serge tunic, and was still fiddling about with
the buttons of her white blouse. Why did the St Theresa's
uniforms have to be so labour-intensive? Cold fingers in
wintertime were hard pressed to cope.
They were the last ones out of the changing sheds after the
swimming class. It was the only time during school hours
when it was okay for their skinny limbs and flat chests to be
on show. And probably only because the icy cold water was
supposed to be good for their character. The nuns were
strict about modesty. "Bold girl!", they would say to anyone
who dared to leave a couple of top buttons undone.
But Hazel was in no hurry. She was in deep shit already.
There'd been the small matter of a three-shilling discrepancy
when she'd returned with the staff lunch orders that day. If
it had happened to Mary, the presumption would be that she'd
got diddled by that unscrupulous shop-keeper. But Hazel
would have pocketed it herself, in their estimation. The
telephone message by now would already have been relayed
by Sister Rosemary to their mother. Who would tell their
stepfather when he got home that night from work. Who
would then give Hazel a hiding. The bruises were still there
from the last one.
Mary also got hidings, but not with the frequency of Hazel's.
Still, if they could get to Mass on time, they would have
another hour in which to pray about it. And if they didn't
get there on time, then Mary would be getting a hiding too.
Bad blood.
Whenever Hazel screwed up, their parents always spoke of
bad blood.
Hazel had been adopted. Mary's mother was a war widow;
in fact Mary never saw her father, as he was already on
active service abroad when she was born. His grave was
somewhere in France. Well-meaning relatives said another
child should be adopted, to be a playmate. Enter Hazel,
same age as Mary. A series of foster homes had already left
their indelible mark. Hazel trusted no one, and didn't feel
that she owed anything to anybody. But circumstances made
the two of them close. Her escapades would get both of
them in trouble, and their shared beatings bonded them in
adversity.
And post-war, their mother remarried and had another five
kids. Go figure!
PAUSE, and FAST-FORWARD.
The Ford Prefect was rocking quite insistently now. From
the front seat, looking straight ahead through the
spray-spattered windscreen at the dismal grey seascape
beyond the parking bay, Mary said;
"Hazel, what are you doing now!"
Some gasping noises, and the rocking didn't slacken.
"Keep quiet, and look front!"
Hazel sounded muffled and out of breath. And strangely her
voice was coming from somewhere well down behind the
front benchseat of the Ford.
She should never have agreed to come along on this drive
with Hazel and Tom Winters. But Hazel had begged her to,
knowing that she wasn't allowed to move a muscle these
days without Mary as a chaperone. If Mary had arrived
home from school without Hazel in tow, there would have
been big trouble.
Practicing strict self-censorship, Mary kept her eyes straight
ahead. She didn't dare look back, not knowing what she
would see if she did. It sounded serious, all these animal
noises from the back seat. Suckings, and slurpings, and soft
moans. She turned on the radio to drown it out. Frankie
Avalon was in mid-croon.
Hazel had a protruding clit. And Mary didn't. Except she
didn't know it was called a clit. No one had ever called it
anything in her presence. Such things were not discussed in
their household. But she had seen Hazel's. When they were
younger they often shared the same bath. It was big and
pink. The clit, that is; not the bath. It poked well out from
the tent-like fleshy hood that stretched around it, and was the
most prominent feature of Hazel's pussy landscape. Even
when she got her fanny hair, you could still see it.
Mary had to poke around a bit before she could find her own
clit. She had done it in private. Getting caught playing with
her genitals would have seen her put on a diet of bread and
water for a month. But she had to try and find it. She
couldn't understand why hers was tucked so out of sight,
while Hazel's could be seen practically any time she was
knickerless.
Could it explain why Hazel liked boys? And why boys liked
Hazel? The girl was a boy magnet. Not just any old boy.
Boys with cars, too!
Mary, on the other hand, was a wall-flower. The few times
they were allowed to go to dances, no one had ever asked
her to dance. Yet she was not *too* bad looking. But she
often risked getting trampled by the rush of boys wanting to
ask Hazel to dance. Hazel seemed to exude that certain
something, that je ne sais qoi, that caused boys to get lumps
in their throat and lumps in their trousers.
"It's getting late. We really should be going home."
Now it was Pat Boone's job to drown out the groans from
the back seat, but he lacked the rhythm to blend in well with
the car's joggling. You would have needed Chuck Berry for
that. And Chuck Berry was considered far too radical for
any airplay in this here town.
If Hazel and Tom were really doing what she thought they
were doing, it was hard to imagine how they could manage
it. We are talking English Ford here, not American Ford.
Designed for English lanes and colonial "roads", the Pride of
Dagenham was built small, light, easier to lift up out of bogs
and ditches. But despite the lack of elbow room and knee
room, in this country there was many a cherry got popped on
the back seat of a Ford Prefect.
PAUSE and FAST-FORWARD again
John had practically been chosen for Mary, by her step-
father. Well, not specifically chosen. But he was one of
a bunch that had passed an initial screening process.
Mary had been nagging her parents that she didn't know any
boys, she wanted to get to know some boys, could they
*please* fix it for her so she could meet some boys. Putting
her head into the lion's mouth, you might think. But her
step-dad actually had a bit of a soft spot for her. And her
parents thought it best that they engineer the boy-meeting
process themselves, since it was probably going to be
inevitable. They didn't want her to turn out like Hazel, who
seemed to attract completely the wrong sort as if she were a
dog on heat.
It was decided that they would hold a teenage party. Mary's
step-dad coached a sports team of lads about Mary's age, and
he hand-picked some of his charges to come and attend the
party. John was one of them.
The party itself was pretty boring. Tightly supervised, music
kept low, rug-rat brothers and sisters performing
unspeakably embarrassing acts of disobedience.
And John didn't really stand out from the bunch. There was
another boy she found much dishier. But by the time the
night was through, it was John who had murmured an
invitation for her to go with him to a dance the following
week.
A date! A real, live date!
He came to get her at the appointed time, and they walked
the two or so miles down to the Community Hall. Hazel
could get guys who had cars, but Mary would have to walk.
John seemed pleasant enough, and very sweet. But he
promptly abandoned her at the hall while he went and talked
to his sports-team buddies. It seemed an eternity before he
retrieved her again. She put it down to first date nerves.
The dance itself was fairly uneventful, though it gave her a
chance to find out more about him. Like her, he was a bit of
a reject. Well, different, anyway. His father was general
manager of a small factory; plastics, or something. Socially,
they considered themselves a cut above. His elder brother
was in business, having been given a generous start by the
old man. His sister was married to a businessman, a bit
dense but old money so in their view she had "married well".
John wanted to be a scientist, so was definitely a square peg
in a round hole. It did not fit into their image at all. He
got absolutely no support from them for this vocation, finan-
cial or otherwise, but he was determined to stick it out.
He walked her home. Soon would come The Kiss. And,
hopefully, a request to see her again.
She had already decided in advance that if he slipped her any
tongue, then she definitely wouldn't see him again.
French-kissing on a first date would be too forward for
words.
Fortunately, he didn't slip her any tongue.
On such simple little things our fate is often decided.
PAUSE and SLOW-FORWARD
Inevitably, Hazel got pregnant.
The nuns held a Council of War with her parents, and next
thing she was sent away to a Home for Wayward Girls.
There she was taught useful life-skills like how to sew
buttonholes and darn socks, until the baby arrived. It was
immediately put up for adoption, and a job was found for
Hazel in a garment factory.
As soon as she had saved up enough money for a one-way
ticket, Hazel hopped on a plane to Australia. Her life there
became a string of menial jobs and unhappy relationships.
She never once wrote or called. It was to be another twenty
years before Mary ever saw her again.
Meanwhile, Mary and John were going steady. He had
become besotted with her. She had become accepting of
him, more or less by default. He was now at University
doing his Bachelors degree, and she had begun her teacher
training.
She didn't really want to be a primary school teacher, but
her grades had limited her choices somewhat. She was no
Einstein anyway, and it was almost impossible to get much
study done in that madhouse she called a home. Her
younger siblings all needed looking after, and she was
expected to do much of it. Her mother had kind-of given up
after the twin boys arrived on the scene.
When it all got a bit too much for her, she would phone John
and sob, "Take me away from it all!" He would put aside his
textbooks, venture out into the cold night air, buy a
newspaper-wrapped serving of hot fish and chips, and meet
her at the bus stop about halfway between their homes.
Sitting there wrapped up in heavy coats, he would hold her
hand and restore her sanity for another few hours.
They intended to get married as soon as he graduated. And
then put a large tract of water between themselves and their
families.
It was funny when they had announced their engagement.
John's father came up to Mary's house, all primed by John's
mother to give a speech. He was taken into the front room
by Mary's step-dad, whereupon he delivered the speech.
He did not approve of any uniting of their respective Houses.
As far as he was concerned, Mary was from the wrong side
of the tracks. She was second-generation Irish immigrant,
and a Catholic, whose father worked in the railways. No
son of theirs was going to marry into such a white-trash
family.
Mary's step-dad said he agreed wholeheartedly. He was no
fan of the match either. He hadn't wanted John to team up
with her at all. It was another boy among the initial selection
that he had wanted her to start seeing. And no way did he
want to become related to a capitalist-bourgois Anglo-Saxon
Protestant sassenach like John's dad.
That done and honour satisfied, they cracked open a bottle of
whiskey and spent the next three hours yarning convivially
about sports.
The wedding took place the week following John's graduation
with a BSc in Chemistry. It was a small affair, though far
too big for John's liking, as he wanted to keep as much money
in reserve as he could for their new life together. Having
entirely paid his own way through University, he had become
paranoid about money.
Mary was a virgin on her wedding night. During their
courtship they had done a certain amount of slap and tickle,
but no penetration. He'd wanted to, but she had a morbid
fear of getting pregnant. Look at what had happened to
Hazel. Mary didn't want to be whisked away in the dead of
the night like that, and be only spoken of in hushed tones for
ever after.
Sex was a disappointment. Neither of them had a clue. It
was painful for her at first, and his preparation of her was
usually minimal. As time went by he got better, but he only
ever used his fingers on her. If they knew about oral sex at
all, it was only that it was for nasty people. After a while
the sex was not unpleasant and good for the feeling it
engendered of intimacy and closeness, but she never came.
She got pregnant within the first year, stopped working and
became a full-time home maker for the next decade.
John felt stifled in his job. Holding a junior science position
at an austere and conservative boarding school for boys, he
knew what was needed for advancement but couldn't bring
himself to do it. The general idea was you had to stay in the
same institution for forty years, drink beer with the principal
on Friday nights, play golf with him on Sundays, and if you
were of the right stuff you could eventually become a Head
of Department, a Deputy Principal, and so on.
John thought that such brown-nosing was for the birds. And
he didn't agree with half of the school rules that he was
meant to enforce. So he opted for adventure rather than
status, and started applying for teaching jobs in various
islands of the South Pacific.
STOP and PLAY
"Penny for your thoughts!"
Mary snapped out of her reverie at once. No way could she
tell John *that* particular thought! Standing at the kitchen
bench slicing chuck steak for a pot of stew, she had found
herself gazing at the lush jungle vista from their kitchen
window, going over Virginia's propositon in her mind.
"No, it's nothing" she lied. "Call the kids, I want them all
washed and ready for tea soon."
Coming here had been great for the kids. They seemed to
spend most of their time running around in the jungle behind
the staff quarters, playing cowboys and indians and
committing God knows what acts of mayhem with the
children of other staff members or from the village nearby.
Sometimes she worried; after all, in this place they had real
poisonous snakes, and scorpions, and centipedes and
things. On the other hand, they had become so capable, and
seemed aware of all the dangers. She couldn't keep them
housebound all the time.
Her thoughts came back to Virginia's husband, Derek. He
was reasonably handsome, better-looking than John, though
starting to develop a bit of a beer belly. He was quite
charming, from the contact they'd had so far. No obvious
social defects. She still couldn't quite believe Virginia's
claim that he had a yen for her. Wonder what he's like
as a lover?
These days John was tending to piss her off. Things she had
taken for granted in their relationship, she was now inclined
to question. His tight grip on the family cheque book, for
instance. When they argued, it was usually about money.
He'd always been the breadwinner, and this was her first year
of real work now that her youngest was school-age. She'd
been accustomed to John calling the shots about how income
was disposed of when it was entirely his income. But she felt
she wanted to have a bit more say, now.
And he patronised her in conversation. They would have
people around for tea, or barbecues, and he always had to
hold the floor. He seemed to have an opinion on just about
everything, and loved verbal jousting just for the sake of it.
Okay, so he was the intellectual and knew stuff that she
didn't, but she liked to have a chance to speak too, you
know. Starting work again was rebuilding her self-
confidence. People at the primary school were willing to
accept her for who she was, rather than just as an appendage
of John.
But he didn't seem to get it.
At least once a month now they would have a blazing row,
which the children found very upsetting. Sometimes it got
physical, when she would try to hurt him in some way, just to
try and get through to him. Pinches, punches, thrown
objects. Stuff that was normal to her during her childhood,
but her own kids had not been exposed to that before.
And their sex was still pretty ordinary.
The end of the school year was coming up. Part of his job
at the Government boarding school was to supervise students
during their return by inter-island ship to their villages
for the vacation. He would return in about two weeks time,
leaving the students to begin the back-breaking task of
cutting enough copra to pay their own school fees for the
next academic year.
Mary had gone with him the first time, but never again!
Everyone had to sleep on the heaving deck, and her lasting
impression was of sea sickness, the smell of pigs and
chickens, diesel oil, and no proper toilet facilities.
She was not planning on going this time.
This would be a window of opportunity, said those brain
cells who saw her "problem" as "opportunity". More and
more braincells had been coming over to that way of
thinking. "You only live once!" they kept murmuring. A
referendum of brain cells could now could go either way.
You only live once ...
The kids wanted to go to the Patterson's for a "Midnight
Feast". The Patterson kids were very English, and spent
much of their waking moments reading books by Enid
Blyton. "Midnight Feasts" seemed to feature prominently in
these stories about the Secret Seven, Famous Five, and so
on. In common parlance, it meant the kids wanted to sleep
over, and be allowed to go to bed very late.
With John away and kids out of the house for an entire
weekend, it meant that the coast would be clear.
You only live once ...
See Part Two...
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