This was written on my third night while staying with my friend Vitalia at their family home.
Now that I am back and the days have drifted by it all feels like a bit of a dream.

Reader, it is a little before one in the morning. Sleep illudes me.
The house is quiet. I’ve opened the French doors to invite in the moonlight, the cool night air, and the sound of the crickets.

Reader, I am afraid. I am terrified. I’ve locked my bedroom door. But am I locking out the possibility of him coming to me in the night? Or is it a weak attempt to lock myself in?

There is a commotion going in my mind; raised voices – reason and commonsense arguing with base desire. It’s a conflict I’ve lived with for years. But tonight the voices seem louder. Reason is chirping on endlessly about the track of devastation and anguish such a relationship would bring, while desire sits snivelling like a child having a tantrum.

Have I come so low, that I would even consider for one moment the things that my unchained libido is suggesting? Have I become a beast that is happiest when it is feeding on illicit-unions?

All day I’ve felt his eyes on me. All day I’ve avoided returning his gaze. But if I don’t look, does that not say something? Send its own message…..

I’ve read enough cheap novels, in which the quivering virgin avoids the hot stare of the darkly handsome stranger, whose eyes says, ‘lay down, I want to fuck you senseless’.

I want to laugh at the image of myself as the quivering virgins….. but quiver I do. I know myself. A need for sexual gratification is now ingrained in my character.
I have been corrupted – I am corrupt……
In the past I’ve chosen my partners carefully – and there have been enough of them to feed my vampire-ish need, and yes, this would be careless and stupid in the extreme. But the snivelling child sitting in the corner wants what she wants.
Is it the risk, that draws me, I wonder? Or the gratification of a desire?

If only he knew what I really was, that I’m not the faithful wife I pretend to be; that my recent history is pot-marked with the naked bodies of men.

I can see how he sees me – the friend of his sister, of the family. The tall, athletic older woman who came into their lives…… his life, at a time when young boys start to fantasize about naked women… breasts…. pussy…. sex.

Vitalia had been right, years ago I had caught him looking at me with undiluted desire. His gaze had followed me when I walked by; licking at me when I lay by the pool wearing almost nothing. Even then I’d read the message in his eyes and in the anguished expression on his face. All he’d needed was a little encouragement, the slightest indication that I might be available. But I’d been eighteen, immature and perhaps a little conceited, and took it as an amusing compliment.

Fifteen years later his gaze has lost its innocence. Now he looks at me with a knowledgeable stare that says that the hot desires of the adolescent still burn as brightly.

Vitalia whispered that there have been a host of women who have succumbed to his charms. The road to Rome is apparently paved with broken hearts, and cuckolded husbands.

What am I going to do tomorrow when we are alone together?
I know, I haven’t told you why we will be alone. But that will have to wait, sleep is finally pulling down my eyelids and I have to be up early……Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz