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** The dialogue in this blog is as accurate as my memory of the events allows. I am gifted or cursed with an eidetic memory; which means that I can recall everything I’ve ever read, seen, heard, experienced, smelt and done.
This comes in very handy in my job, and also means that I can lie to my husband successfully.
Although few people have this ability, it usually fades before adulthood.  **


The morning afterCourchevel is domed by blue skies and bathed in sunshine from above, and carpeted in snow for as far as the eye can see. I twisted a knee yesterday, so I’ve been left in the chalet while the others have gone out to play in the fresh powder.

So, since I am alone for at least the next five hours, what else can a girl do, who’s feeling sorry for herself, but drink tea and walk down memory lane, and try to make some sense of the rungs on the ladder that have brought her to this juncture. It’s certainly a pretty place to wallow.


After, Between a Mister and Mattress

………..It was near noon when I turned the car onto the motorway and pushed the pedal down to the floor. As the miles slid by, my mind rehashed the hours since the first adulterous kiss had set a match to my marriage vows.
I’d sinned in the eyes of God; my husband would hate me; he’d divorce me because I’d let some man I’d met the night before fuck me.
There was a gaping hole in my life that wasn’t there yesterday.
The memory of the night and the following morning were like sand paper rubbing against my suddenly ordinary existence. I was infected with a silent insidious poison. A horrible hunger had been awakened in me.

Not for the man necessarily; in-spite of the fact that my lips still tingled from his abuse. No, I pined for the pitiless way I’d been used; not kindly or carefully, as a owner husband might use his wife; but carelessly, brutality and cruelly, by someone whose only need was to extract as much carnal pleasure from the use of my body as possible, in the short time he had me.

My husband had sent me a text earlier that morning that read, “Did you have a good time last night? How’s the queen?”
I’d seen it after my ravisher lover had left my body and gone to retrieve my clothes.
There were tears in my eyes when I replied, “Fine thanks and the queen says hi.”
His reply was almost immediate; “I bet he really said kiss my hairy ass mother-fucker.”
The two of them have never gotten along. My husband is bordering on being homophobic, and the queen is bordering on being macho-phobic.

His car was not in the drive, but daddies little girls were sitting on the fence waiting; dark, almost judgmental glints in their big green eyes.

And hour later I’d showered, again, scrubbing myself between the legs and the cheeks of my still sore bottom, washing my hair and cleaned my teeth till they almost bled. But I was still conscious of the aroma of animal sex on my skin, and the taste of his semen in my mouth.

The memory of that final, violent act played round and round in my mind; the constant ramming of his penis, and the finger he used to excite my clitoris had turned me on so much, that I’d started to second his motion, pushing my bottom back into him as he bore down.
I came with a scream, my fingers ripping at the pillows, my back arching as my muscles contracted. It was then that he pulled out of me, dragged me onto my knees, ripping off the condom, turned me around, placing his throbbing penis against my lips.

“Suck it,” he commanded. Like a willing slave I did what he wanted.
He grabbed my head and pushed it all the way in. Tears dribbled from my eyes, but I sucked and licked, hearing the slurp of saliva as he drove into my throat.


For almost two hours I sat on the window seat, staring unseeing out at the garden, wallowing in a pit of self-pity and self-loathing.

As the minutes ticked by I began to realise that my shame was less for the act of betrayal, and more for the fact that I’d found the final assault overpoweringly exciting. What does that say about me?

My up-bringing had taught that confession was good for the soul, but I hadn’t been to church for nearly nine years. And no amount of hail-Marys was going to wash away the stain on my marriage. Does it make me a bad person, if I confess that I really didn’t consider confessing? What would that achieve? Who would feel better?

I could just imagine the reaction when I told him that an unknown male who I’d just met had been inside every hole I had. What would any red-blooded male do? Especially a six foot two inch, fourteen stone rugby player, who gets off on beating the shit out of other semi-homicidal Neanderthals.

Having said that, my man only craves brutality from other ruffians on the field. Off it, he’s as mild-mannered as Clark Kent. But still, I wouldn’t want to test the water.

Mid-afternoon I found a large reefer he’d hidden inside an old video box on the bookshelf; I went out on to the patio and lit up. The smoke drifted into the air after wooing my brain-cells, convincing me that everything wasn’t as bad as I’d painted it.
By the time he came home I was half stoned and mildly giggly. But my tongue was on lock down.
The sun is far too enticing to sit in here any longer. I think I can manage to hobble to the town centre, where there’s a cute barman, who’s got an eye for a pretty face, and who has a sexy French accent and a smooth line of come-to-bed patter. No I’m not going to fuck him. I just fancy having my ego stroked as he tries to get me out of my pants.
I know I’m bad. But we’ve already ascertained that. Haven’t we?

Post Scriptum

I’d picked up a speeding ticket on the way back that day. Notification arrived a week or so later. I don’t remember speeding – not that I recall much about the journey home, until I pulled up in the drive and gave a huge sigh of relief that I wasn’t going to have to face him just yet. Not till I’d had a chance to concoct a reasonable description of the nights happenings, that didn’t include me getting royally screwed.

“No, I didn’t go back to a strange mans apartment and let him fuck me.
No, I didn’t suck his cock. No I didn’t bend over and-.
No! No! No! I’m not a lying cheating whore your think I am.
By the way, I still love you.”

Or words to that effect………..