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oldart8Dear reader,
If you had been peering in through our window this evening, or had been a fly sitting on the wall, you would have seen what appeared to be a happily married couple enjoying an evening in together, sitting in front of the fire, watching television.

Fresh from a long bath, her short hair still slightly damp, she was dressed in a pale blue towelling dressing gown, he in chequered lounging trousers and a light top that moulded to his broad shoulders and muscular chest. He had his arm around her shoulders and she was leaning against him contentedly. There are two crystal glasses, glistening in the dancing firelight.

The cats, they who see all and are particularly fond of a roaring fire, were crouched, one her master’s lap, the other at his side, refusing to be left out of this perfect picture of marital bliss. The dog, too big for lap sitting and more a mummies boy, was on the floor, his long head on her foot.
Around eleven he’d switched off the TV, give his wife a significant look, picked up the empty glasses and walked out of the room.

He went down on her, making her cry out as her first orgasm made her back arch and her toes curl. Then he’d taken her in the traditional way, before letting her straddle him, impaling herself on his broad eight and a half inches, controlling the motions, reaching her second orgasm just before his sperm shot up into her womb. She happily slumped down onto his chest, her mouth finding his, her vagina clamped tightly around his still semi hard penis.

She loved him. She was in love with him. That much hadn’t changed.
Tonight he’d been different. Tonight he’d strayed from the usual, time worn routine of his lovemaking. He’d surprised her with a new tenderness and his willingness to surrender control, to let her set the pace and the depth.

In return she’d responded with a natural wantonness that might have surprised him, had he stopped to consider the altered subtleties of her actions, and the changed tones of her cries and moans. But he was not a man for whom such metaphysical thoughts were readily available.

Afterward, she lay in the semi darkness listening to his breathing slow as he drifted off. He’d told her he loved her. She told him she loved him, while at the same time calling herself a spoiled, corrupted, insidious bitch; a cheat with barely a sprinkling of conscience.
Eyes still open after an hour, she longed to go back, to before; to before the first other man had shoved himself into her.
Had he made her what she was not? Or had he just shown her what she had always been? That question had been bothering her more and more of late.

She couldn’t pretend, now that she was sitting alone before that same fire-light they shared, recollecting the night’s scene, that she is wasn’t feeling sad; sad enough to have to wipe away the streams of crocodile tears that run across her cheeks.
She was feeling sorry for herself, and feeling sorry for the man she loved, respected and betrayed.

In the semi-darkness she swore to herself that she’d give up the life; that tomorrow she’d bin the paraphernalia that she’s hidden away; the make-up, the coloured lenses, the wigs, and the clothes that change her into the other woman with another name, and another bank account.

But she’s had these feelings before. She’s sat in the dark on other such nights and made the same endless promises to the sleepy-eyed cats. She knows herself. When the sound of the city is once again in her ears, her promises made in the firelight will evaporate in the sunlight.

So, fly on the wall – voyeur at the window – where does she go from here?

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