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Dawn In The Dark Ch. 01

By: Gale82



Introduction: There's no cheating or 'sharing' in this chapter - its just about a crisis in a marriage that has to be resolved. The next chapter may be rather different.



I'm sure that a lot of people love to wake up to the first rays of sunlight seeping through the curtains in the morning. 

I'm not one of them!

It's not that I have any trouble getting out of bed at the appropriate time to begin my day; it's just that I like to have a choice about what time that ought to be. Enough time to shower, get dressed, have a reasonable breakfast, and a leisurely drive to work. During the week, that means setting the alarm for seven-thirty, hitting the snooze button, and then accepting the necessity of rising when it goes off again ten minutes later.

I took part in a survey once in which one of the questions was 'How much sleep do you think you really need?' I ignored the options they offered and wrote, 'Just ten minutes more.'

In the winter, there's never been a problem. It stays dark until it's time to rise which, to me, seems very civilised. The problem comes in spring and summer when the sun rises earlier and earlier and has the impudence to disturb my rest. 

I hate that!.

It comes from my childhood, I think, when I shared a bedroom with my older sister. She was one of those people who greeted sunrise like the return of a prodigal son – up out of bed at some ungodly hour, opening and closing drawers and cupboards, singing some stupidly happy song when, for Christ's sake, it was still really the middle of the night!

I hated her for her early-morning joyfulness and I hated the bright sunshine that, as far as I was concerned, had no right to appear before I'd had enough sleep. And the real irony was that my parents had seen fit to name me 'Dawn!' 

Almost as ironic was that my big sister was named Irene – which apparently means 'peace.' I wasn't the least bit surprised to find that the name Lucifer' means 'light bringer.' While the other girls had their dreams of being ballerinas or film stars, my only dream was of a room so dark that I wouldn't have to wake up until I was damn well good and ready to.

My teenage years flew by without any real sense of direction. Although I was a fairly bright student, I left school as soon as I could, not long after my 16th birthday, and began working for a company of chartered accountants. I did well enough that they began to train me for accountancy and paid for me to take all my exams. It wasn't easy, because I had definitely become a bit of a bit of a party girl and hated to spend evenings studying when I could have been with my friends at a disco or nightclub, but I somehow managed to apply myself well enough to get the qualifications.

As per the agreement, I continued to work with that company for the following three years but I was never particularly enthusiastic. So, when one of our clients – a builder named Harry – began to get a bit serious about me and, after a reasonable courtship, eventually suggested marriage, I decided it was probably the best option for me. To be honest, I'd had, plenty of boyfriends and I'd enjoyed the freedom of making my own decisions and living my life in my own way, but I felt it was time to settle down. After all, I was 25 and the other girls at parties and discos were beginning to look an awful lot younger than me. 

Harry was actually gorgeous; tall, obviously strong and fit, with straw-coloured hair. He had the most piercingly blue eyes I'd ever seen and a smile that could melt tungsten at fifty paces, and I didn't think I'd ever have a problem when it came to the 'forsaking all others' bit. The only trouble was that we were both somewhat immature; Harry even more so than me, even though he was two years older. 

The strange thing was, though, that it was me who took to married life more easily than he did. To be fair, it wasn't difficult. My only job was looking after the books for his business – which kept me busy for less than half of a normal working week – and things were going well financially due to a mini boom in the building trade. As Harry was always a naturally active person, the hard work he put in didn't seem to tire him too much so we had plenty of nights out together and the physical side of our relationship was pretty good, too. I learned how to prepare meals reasonably well; so well, in fact, that the mentions of how good his mother was as a cook became less and less frequent! But I was also aware that Harry wasn't happy being cloistered with me all the time – he needed his free time to be with 'the lads,' at least one evening a week at the pub for a game of darts and a few pints, or to watch his beloved Aston Villa if their match was being televised – and I had no problem with that.

After a couple of years, we moved into one the houses that Harry's company had built in the suburbs of our home town and life became really good. It was so good, in fact that I didn't really notice at first when things began to change.

With hindsight, I can see a hundred little things that ought to have warned me that something was wrong. On his nights out with the boys, he started coming home later and, unusually for him, more than a little drunk. At the same time, our sex life took a bit of a nose dive. Naturally, I wanted to talk about it, but Harry – as I've said – was still a bit of a 'lad' and talking about sexual matters was difficult. It was okay to talk about it in the crudest imaginable terms when he was having a drink and a laugh with his mates, of course, and he'd never had any trouble asking me to do particular things with him, for or to him in the bedroom, but this was different.

I eventually cornered him about it one night after I'd made him his favourite mince and potato pie with chips and peas, served with several cans of Abbot Ale Bitter. Naturally, it turned out to be my fault. 

A few weeks earlier, while their sales rep was on holiday, Harry had asked me to show potential buyers around the show house. I had time on my hands and I'd actually enjoyed it immensely, but I'd apparently been spotted by a sales rep who'd called to see Harry trying to sell him a new line of door furniture.

"Do you remember someone named Barry Ashfield?" Harry asked me. I had to think for a few minutes before the name registered but, when it did, and memories of a one-night stand from many years earlier flashed through my mind, I replied;

"Errm... yes, I think so."

It turned out that he'd noticed me as I was showing an elderly couple the double garage. As they talked, the man had suddenly dropped the bombshell.

"Good grief! Is that Dawn Harris?" he'd asked, pointing towards me.

"Well, it used to be," Harry had smiled, "she's married, now. Why, do you know her?"

"I certainly used to!" he'd laughed, "Me... and a fair number of other blokes, I'd reckon!"

"Listen, Harry," I said softly, "I've never lied to you. I told you I'd had a lot of boyfriends when I was younger. And you said that what was in the past was just that... in the past."

"You didn't tell me they all got to fuck you!" he declared, and his blue eyes looked as if they'd been chipped off the side of an iceberg. I probably should have been angry, but I was just too stunned for that. Neither of us had claimed to be exactly celibate during our formative years but, although I'd been nervous about it, I'd always promised myself that I'd be honest about if the subject came up. It never had, and I'd never seen any good reason to force a discussion. So I was left to just stare at him, my jaw slack, as his eyes didn't even seem to blink.

"So, how many were there, Hon?" he asked. His voice was quiet, but there was no hiding the fact that he was seething with anger, and I made it worse by being too shocked to reply at first. "Five? Maybe ten? Maybe...?" he queried.

"I don't know!" I said, snapping out of my trance and giving what was probably the worst answer I possibly could have.

"Jesus! What? You mean you lost count?" he snarled, his voice rising.

"No... I mean... well... there were a few," I stammered, "...but that was all before I met you, Harry! I've never even looked at anyone else since then." (Almost true, but when you spend a lot of time around a building site where a lot of fit young men are working – usually stripped to the waist – it's almost impossible not to look).

"A few?" he repeated, "A few? How many's a few, Dawn? I mean, am I the mug who bought into what everyone else was getting for free?"

That, I'm afraid, is when the tears started to fall. I didn't want to cry, but I couldn't help myself. And Harry just sat there, quite impassively, and watched me. Before long it became too much; I rose from the table and went upstairs to the bedroom, flinging myself onto the bed and sobbing uncontrollably. A few minutes later he came into the room, picked out the clothes he'd need for the following day and began to leave. Through heaving sobs, I asked him what he was doing. He told me that he was going to sleep in one of the other bedrooms and, when I said it wasn't necessary, he answered;

"It's for the best, Hon. At least for tonight it is. You stay here... this is your room, after all."

And it was. When I'd told him about my dislike of the early light, he'd crafted interior shutters to block it out. Closing them, even in the middle of a brilliant summer's day made it as dark as an underground cave. That night I slept only fitfully and, waking to the sound of my alarm, I was just in time to hear Harry leave for work early the next morning.

For once, I just grabbed my dressing gown and went down to the kitchen for a cup of coffee that, to be honest, I didn't really want. Grabbing a pencil and a writing pad, I set about making a list of the men I'd had sex with before meeting my husband,

Not one of them, I can honestly say, had been allowed near me without using a condom; even though I'd been on the pill, Harry was the first who'd ever cum inside me. By the time I'd finished, there were a grand total of 8 who'd achieved full penetration (a truly horrible expression, but accurate), and 3 others I thought of as 'handymen' (a touch of the hand and it's all over!) and didn't really count.

Was that a lot? I didn't know for sure. To be honest, though, for a single girl, I didn't think that approximately one lover per year was either exceptional or extraordinary. I was pretty sure that many of my friends who'd stayed single that long would have been able to write a much longer list.

Next, I put figures alongside them to indicate how many times we'd had sex. Three of them required very little thought because they were only 'one-nighters' (including, I'm glad to say, the loose-mouthed Barry Ashfield!) and two others were fairly brief holiday romances. One was in Ibiza during a friend's wild hen party weekend. The other was when I was depressed - a few weeks after my parents died in an accident; I took a break in Paris, met a lovely guy and we spent a few nights together putting the cares of the world aside. 

There were, therefore, just three who had mattered in any kind of significant way. One was a guy I'd known at school. He was a couple of years older than me (19 to my 17) and we'd had a sort of on-and-off affair that lasted a few months – until he happened to realise that a friend of mine was completely infatuated with him and, less than a year later, married her. 

Another one (actually my first) was a shy lad who never had much success with the girls. I was a little older than him and I think I was bowled over by his enthusiasm for me. He was a sweet lad, but he became too attached and too possessive. Eventually, I had to cool things off because it was all becoming too restrictive for someone as young as I was.

Finally, there was someone I met at a dinner for accountants (you can probably imagine how exciting that was!) and, although he lived a fairly long way away, he was usually able to meet me at weekends. We partied a lot – he was a brilliant dancer and, being several years older than me, much more knowledgeable about the world and its ways. We used to travel to nearby towns and spend the weekend at discos and parties, then enjoy being together in our hotel room at night. It was fun while it lasted – and it lasted until the moment I found out he was married!

That was it! I told him not to bother – and all his promises to leave his wife only served to sicken me. It was over, and I've never wanted to see him since.

So, that was it. Was there enough there to make me some kind of freewheeling slut? Or, more to the point, was there enough there to make Harry see me that way? There was only one way to find out of course, and I was waiting for him when he came home. He already seemed in a better frame of mind, but I didn't want any recurrence of what had happened the previous night so, as soon as we sat down to eat the meal I'd prepared, I told him;

"After what you said last night...."

"I'm sorry, Hon," he began, "I know I was out of order. That was the past and...."

"Okay... thanks for that," I smiled, "but I don't want it hanging over us. So, I've made a list. On this sheet of paper, I've written down the names... well, the first names... of every man I've ever had sex with."

"There's really no need," he said, but he couldn't take his eyes off the folded sheet of A4 paper that I was holding, so I went on;

"I think there is, Harry. And I want you to do the same," I told him and pushed a pad and pen over to him. He looked a bit shocked, and more than a bit uneasy, so I explained: "My list includes everyone, Harry. Some of them are one-night-stands; some of them were a few times and a couple might just deserve the name of 'affair' or 'relationship.' I haven't included blow-jobs, for the simple reason that I never did any – you were the first – so I don't expect you to include anything like that either. Just write down – first names only – the ones you actually had sex with."

He still hesitated, but I could see a definite look of relief cross his face – just enough for me to wonder how many blow-jobs he'd had before we met! Then, as I went off to fetch the apple crumble and custard I'd made, I saw him begin to write, very slowly, and with a look of deep concentration on his face. By the time I returned he'd torn off the top sheet and folded it in half. I set the dishes down and he looked up and said: "So what happens now? Do we...?"

"What happens now, "I grinned, "is that we eat our pudding, you have a beer while I have a glass of wine... and then we exchange lists. Simple."

"And then what?"

"Well... depending on what we see... you either tell me that I used to be such an easy lay that you can't bear being with me...." He went to interrupt but I held my hand up and went on; "Or... you accept that what's past is past, give your food a few minutes to settle, and then take me upstairs and fuck me senseless... safe in the knowledge that you're the only one I'll ever want! Deal?"

A huge grin had spread across his face; his eyes were sparkling with good humour, and he replied; "You can consider my food settled, Hon... can't we just...."

"Down, boy!" I laughed. The signs seemed pretty good and it was possible that the previous night had just been a combination of brooding over something and having a few drinks but, even so, I wanted to clear the air – to get everything out in the open and deal with it. My marriage to Harry was the most important thing in my life – he was the most important thing in my life – and I'd do whatever it took to keep us together. Pushing the dishes aside, we nervously exchanged the pieces of paper. I didn't dare to look at him as he opened mine – I just concentrated on the list of names he'd written for me.

There were seven! I read them several times before I looked up at him and asked; "I'm guessing the ones with a mark beside them are 'one-nighters.' Yes?" (There were 2 of those). And he nodded slowly, still reading my offering.

He raised his eyes, a thoughtful look on his face and cupped his chin in his hand. I noticed there was a fair bit of stubble there and the thought of what could be done with that gave me a slight shiver.

"From what that asshole said," he confessed, "I expected a lot more. I mean, I'm as jealous as fuck of these guys... don't get me wrong... but if this really is all...."

"It certainly is!" I told him, very firmly, "I mean... if you're disappointed, I can always invent a few more for you!"

"Hon... I'm so sorry," he said, sounding very contrite. "That guy made it sound as though... y'know! Anyway... there's nothing here that I can't live with, so... can we...."

"You bet!" I declared, as I handed his list back to him and said, "Just as soon as you've completed this!"

His jaw dropped, his face turned from amused excitement to total shock, and he struggled to say something... possibly to protest... so I jumped in quickly.

"Rose!" I said, and watched a mixture of emotions come and go on his handsome features until he finally managed to say;

"...But you said blow-jobs didn't count."

"Yes... and I also said our lists had to be completely honest," I reminded him, "And your's isn't at the moment, is it?"

Once again there were conflicting responses visible on his face until, with a deep sigh, he asked; "Who told you?"

"Add the name first!" I grinned, and watched as he carefully did what I asked. Rose was the stripper his mates had hired for his 'stag night.' It had been a pretty wild affair by all accounts and the highlight of the night had been when the allegedly-buxom girl had pulled his pants down, taken him in her mouth, taken a load in her mouth and gleefully swallowed it while his pals were watching and cheering her on. That was the 'official' version and the only one that most of those present knew about. In fact, Rose had gone to his room later and they'd finished off his single life in style before she left just before sunrise.

"Okay... who?" he wanted to know when he finished writing.

"Morton," I told him and, once again he seemed confused. Morton Pryke (I had a habit of pronouncing his surname 'Prick' because I really disliked him), was his partner in the company. He was also his very best mate. They'd known each other since school and had worked together, supported the same team together, and probably had a lot of escapades that I'd never know about together. Where Harry was handsome, open, and almost naïve in his honesty, however, Morton was the opposite. I dare say his dark and rather saturnine looks might appeal to some, but he was lecherous and sneaky, and I'm pretty sure he'd been milking more than his fair share from their partnership before I started doing their books.

"Morton?" He queried, looking almost disbelieving, "Why would... I mean when did...?"

"The 'why' is easy," I told him, "Two reasons: Firstly, he paid for Rose's errm... 'services'... and thought she ought to have come to his room rather than yours after she'd taken care of you at the party. Secondly, he's been trying to get into my knickers ever since we started going out together and, knowing you wouldn't dare tell me about it, he thought he might get into my good books and get some kind of 'revenge fuck.'

"The 'when' was the first day we came back from our honeymoon. You remember? He was hardly out of the office that day. He kept coming in to query something or other and each time he'd be telling me how you shouldn't have done that... and how I had every right to be angry about it.

"As it happened, I was... but I wasn't going to let him, of all people, see that. I reasoned that it was a borderline thing; even though we were committed to each other, we weren't actually married at the time, so I gave you a sort of 'free pass.' Make no mistake, though, it's the only one you'll ever get!"


Dawn In The Dark Ch. 01



"Oh, God!" he said, looking totally defeated, "So you've known about it all this time... and you never said anything?"

"It's in the past," I replied, "I'm happy to let it stay there. There's no reason to ever mention it again... and I'd prefer it if you don't."

"So... what happens now?" he asked, and I don't think I've ever seen him look so utterly downcast.

"Well... we had a deal, didn't we?" I asked, trying to put on my most innocent look. Slowly, he looked up at me and I saw the beginnings of a smile. "I'm your number nine... and you're mine. And as long as neither of us wants to aim for double figures, I think we'd better errm... seal our agreement?"

His smile grew (and the front of his trousers when he stood up showed that it wasn't alone in that), as he came round to my side of the table and lifted me out of my chair. One of the things I love about my husband is his physical strength; he could pick me up and carry me as if I weighed nothing at all... and that's exactly what he did. Straight up the stairs and into our bedroom we went, and he kissed me hard on the lips virtually all the way. He set me down beside the bed and, as soon as I had enough breath to speak, I asked him to open the shutters.

"You want light?" he grinned.

"Last one to sleep shuts them!" I answered. He went to say something else, his expression suggesting it was going to be another apology, so I put my finger to his lips, shushed him, and said;

"The talking's done. There's no need for anymore. That's the past and this is now," and as I finished speaking, I stepped back a little and lifted the somewhat dull and shapeless dress I'd been wearing over my head and threw it aside. Beneath it, I was wearing only a lace-trimmed, pale blue bra (with enough uplift to make my 32b breasts look a fair bit bigger), and a matching thong.

His 'Wow!' was clearly heartfelt but, before he could say anything else, I reached up to put my arms around his neck and planted my lips firmly onto his. Reaching isn't always that easy – I'm 5'3" and he's almost a foot taller – but the 4" heels I was wearing helped. Almost immediately, I felt his hands slip down to grab the cheeks of my backside and draw me close enough to feel his erection pressing against me. I love that feeling!

As his tongue gently forced its way into my mouth I responded in kind and my hands went down to deal with the heavy, leather belt around his slim waist. Whilst I struggled a bit to undo it, he almost tore his shirt off and, at the same time as the zip on his jeans went down, so my bra was unhooked and we drew apart for a moment, both of us breathless with desire.

"You're gorgeous, Dawn," he breathed, and I shivered as his hairy chest pressed against my breasts and made my nipples hard enough to put someone's eye out. I didn't say anything for a moment, I just settled back on our bed and watched as he stripped – jeans, underpants and socks flying in all directions – and then, as he joined me on the bed, I looked at his face and finally said;

"I've been eyeing up that stubble ever since you came home, Harry... I hope you're not going to waste it!"

Without a word he lowered his mouth to my nipple and, after sucking on it for a second or two, gently stroked his chin across it. The stubble, almost feeling like sandpaper on the sensitive flesh, made me groan with unconcealable pleasure. I wanted him to move further down, but he refused to be hurried and continued to torment my nipples and breasts with the roughness of the tiny hairs until I began to squirm helplessly. I honestly believe he could have made me cum just by doing that but, at long last, he began to kiss his way across the smooth flesh of my belly and down into the tangle of my pubic hair.

I was moaning and gasping even before he pushed my thong to one side and his soft lips caressed my clit, and when they did I became even more vocal as he deliberately kept me hovering on the verge of a climax, teasing me until I thought I was going to go completely insane. I was ready to beg for release but, sensing that, he suddenly changed his position slightly and, very carefully, pressed his chin to my throbbing clit and slowly drew the bristles across it. He did it once, then again, and then the third time made me scream like a banshee as the hot fluid gushed from me and my mind just seemed to shut down completely and let my body absorb the waves of ecstasy that washed over me.

At that moment, I didn't know where I was or what was happening and, by the time my senses began to recover slightly, Harry was between my legs and his solid erection was parting the lips to my thoroughly lubricated entrance and pushing its way into me.

It was as if I'd died and gone to heaven. We'd had many wonderful sessions together, but this was exceptional. Harry, normally hasty when he was aroused, managed to take his time. He found a nice, slow rhythm that reignited my flames and, when he increased his pace, I was already close to another orgasm.

It happened just a few seconds before his; a breathless, yelling, gasping mind-blowing sensation that felt as if I was tumbling helplessly over the edge of a waterfall and plunging into the depths of carnal delights. Moments later, I felt his cock swell inside me, felt the spasms as his seed erupted into my insides and I actually burst into tears of uncontrolled delight while I clutched him to me with all of the force I could muster.

We lay together like that for what seemed an age – although it was probably no more than a minute or two – as he began to soften and, when he finally slipped away from the grasp of my body, I tried and failed not to frown.

Afterwards, as I gently stroked and teased his balls – something that he finds relaxing for a while, but which often ends up causing second-helpings – he kissed me on the forehead and said;

"You are just amazing, Dawn. I love you so much."

"I owe you something, though, don't I?" I suggested, thinking it wasn't fair to let him go down on me without returning the compliment.

"Maybe later," he smiled and snuggled as close as he could before adding, "D'you know what I was thinking when you threw that old dress off?"

"Errm... 'Oh, God, I married a nympho?' Probably something like that," I teased.

"No... seriously... I was thinking 'it's no wonder the likes of Morton fancies you.' In fact, in all honesty, I don't think there's a bloke in the company who...."

"Enough!" I laughed, giving him a bit of a dig in the ribs, "I don't need to know any of that. I've got you. I'm sorted... and don't you ever forget it!"

I felt him stirring again and wondered if he'd want what I'd suggested, but then he changed the tone of the conversation by asking if I ever looked at any porn. 

It took me completely unawares but, since it was a night for being honest, I replied; "I have done... not recently, of course," and then, not knowing the trouble I was about to land myself in, I added; "To be honest, though, I prefer reading a good sexy story. I think it's more fun when you can use your imagination. Y'know... watching people doing things to each other is okay... but there's only so much you can see before it becomes a bit boring and repetitive... don't you think?"

"Funnily enough, I agree," he said. And that surprised me because although Harry was a very intelligent man, he wasn't much of a one for reading.

"Really?"

"Yeah! There's this site on the Internet. I think you'd like it...."



Dawn In The Dark Ch. 02



Introduction:

If you're looking for loads of sexual action, then this may not be to your taste.

There is, however, the introduction of a character from another of my stories - her name is Annabelle an I intend writing more of her adventures eventually - but not in Loving Wives.

**

It was just after midnight and I was feeling old. All around me, people were dancing, drinking, laughing and having a great time -- and all I wanted to do was to go home to bed.

Unfortunately, one of the people having such a great time was Harry, my husband and I didn't want to spoil his enjoyment. The last time he'd tried to get me up for yet another dance, I'd told him that my feet were sore and my shoes were pinching my feet (which is something men will always believe). He'd asked me if I wanted to go home but I'd smiled, told him I was quite happy to just nurse my drink, listen to the music and watch the dancers. And then, almost before I'd finished speaking, Annabelle had whisked him away onto the dance floor.

From that moment on, I'd kept a very wary eye on him. Even though Annabelle was in a relationship with Harry's business partner, Morton, I wouldn't have trusted her any further than I could reach to scratch her eyes out. 

I lost sight of them a couple of times, never for more than a few seconds, but I did see her trying to get a lot closer to my husband as they danced. Fortunately (for both of them!), I saw him quickly move back from any 'danger area' and, when the slow numbers started, he had the good sense to come back to our table and slump down beside me.

Annabelle was clearly disappointed and tried to beg one last dance, but Harry insisted he was worn out. "We're both tired, Annabelle," I told her, "We're just going to finish our drinks and then we're heading for home."

"But the party's moving back to our place," she almost wailed, "You can't drop out yet! It's still early and...."

"Sorry, Annabelle," I started to say

"My friends call me Anna," she reminded me.

"... but we've got an early start tomorrow," I finished, as if I hadn't heard the interruption. When she opened her mouth to speak again, I quietly insisted; "Sorry, Annabelle."

A look passed between us; one of those looks that only women can produce or hope to understand. We each gave a facetious smile, then she bid us farewell and headed off in search of Morton. I looked at Harry and he raised his eyebrow with a crooked grin. Then I did the same, and he said; "Another glass of wine? Or would you prefer a saucer of milk?"

He wasn't annoyed; more amused, especially when I tried to play the innocent and pretend I didn't understand what he was saying. He was well aware of my feelings about Annabelle, although he did his best to keep the peace.

I'd been introduced to her shortly after she and Morton first got together. I was told that she'd been 'in films,' but I later learned that she'd only worked as an extra. She was also a widow. Her late husband had apparently been many years her senior and he'd left her a small fortune. None of which was any cause to dislike her. In fact, she was bubbly, attractive and obviously intelligent but (call it feminine instinct if you must), I recognised a predator when I saw one.

It was she, via Morton, who'd directed my husband's attention to a website that had caused some disagreement between us. It was called 'Literotica,' and Harry thought that it was a lot of fun. 

Just after we'd sorted a problem we'd been having, about lovers from the time before we'd met, Harry told me about it and recommended having a look at it. 

I found that it was a large and well-established site -- obviously aimed at an adult audience -- on which people with varying degrees of ability wrote stories that were, for the most part, designed to be erotic. I had to agree that it was strangely compulsive, and it was good that the stories were sorted into categories. At least it meant I didn't stumble into ones that were based around BDSM, incest or gay males. To begin with, I read a number of 'Erotic Encounters'; some good, some poor and some awful. Then I tried 'Romance,' with pretty much the same results. 

Okay, it was interesting (and some of the stories did give me a bit of a 'tingle), but I couldn't really understand what all the fuss was about. Until Harry told me I was reading the wrong sections! 

"The fun one is 'Loving Wives,' Hon," he told me one Saturday morning, "you should take a look through that one."

I remember that day particularly well because he had to spend time at a very large new site where the groundworks were just beginning. If all went well it would mean a lot of work -- possibly 2 or 3 years' worth -- and, with individual sites being pre-sold to build luxury homes, a more than decent income from the very start. 

In order to protect the initial influx of capital, I'd formed a dormant offshore company in my own name so it wouldn't be shredded by income tax (both Harry and Morton were happy with that), and we were confident that a pretty decent reward was coming our way over the next few years. So I was quite excited about the prospect of this new venture -- but not enough to spend a Saturday donning wellies and trudging around a muddy field. That was the kind of thing best left to the men. Instead, I took my laptop up to the bedroom, checked the national and local news, then decided to take another look at what I'd come to think of as 'Annabelle's site.'

Perhaps I was being a bit naïve, but I think I'd expected tales of wives indulging their husbands by dressing up, indulging in role play and experimenting with new ways of turning their men on. What I hadn't expected was that most of the stories seemed to be about wives having extra-marital affairs -- often with the consent, or even encouragement, of their partners. I was staggered! I mean, I realised that they were (at least for the most part) just fantasies, but I couldn't understand why so many men seemed to share them. I also realised, of course, that most of the stories were written by men -- even many that claimed to be written by a sex-mad wife -- so I did a Google search and quickly found that wife watching -- or sharing, as some called it -- was one of the commonest male fantasies.

It raised a load of questions in my mind. The first was; why did such females get married in the first place if they weren't happy being with one man? I mean, make no mistake about this, I was helplessly in love with Harry; I never wanted to be with anyone else. He was my lover, sharer of my secrets, best and most trusted friend -- everything. And my ambition was to help him be as successful as he wanted to be, to have his children and to love, care and look after him for the rest of our lives. Everything else was incidental. 

Which brought to me my second question: Why was he apparently so fascinated by these stories -- and why had the predator and her sleazy mate directed him (or should I say 'us'?) towards them?

It may be that I overreacted but, by the time he came home, I was ready to give him the third degree and, believe me, I did! My initial feeling was that he wanted to get into Annabelle's knickers. No, strike that! Getting into her knickers would probably be as difficult as opening a well-oiled, unlocked door! 

My timing was probably not the best. Harry was cold, wet and tired by the time he came home and certainly not in the mood for the grilling that I gave him. At first, as we ate the meal I'd prepared, it wasn't too bad. I told him I'd read a load of the 'Loving Wives' stories and his tiredness seemed to disappear as he asked me which ones? What did I think of them? Did I have any favourites?

I waited for him to finish and then, in pretty cold terms, told him they were mostly sick fantasies. As far as I was concerned, they were of two basic types: sex mad wives married to pathetic and inadequate husbands who happily defiled the whole concept of marriage, or the same kind of wives married to self-congratulatory 'macho' husbands who never failed to exact a perfect revenge for such betrayals and almost immediately find a perfect, almost saintly, new partner.

"They're just about ordinary people having fun, Dawn," he protested, the tiredness returning to his voice. I noticed, though, that he was looking down at his plate rather than meeting my gaze.

"Yes... I read one or two like that," I admitted, "...stories about couples who found new ways to spice up their relationship without involving other people. I enjoyed those ones. They were fun. But the ones about people cheating on their partners... or enjoying having their partners do that... I found them a complete and turn-off! Does that upset you, Harry?"

"No... of course it doesn't!" He said quickly - much too quickly - adding, "I mean... they're just stories, Hon. It's like you said... they're fantasies... a bit of fun. I thought we could... well... y'know... maybe, sort of... use them."

"I see!" I answered, and if my voice had been a bit cold up until then, it was now liquid hydrogen. "So you want me to pretend I'm with someone else while I'm having sex with you? Is that it? Or do you want to pretend that I'm someone else? Which is it, Harry, because a lot of those stories seem to start that way and then develop into something more. Is that what you want? Are you hoping I'll become so wrapped up in the idea that I'll eventually try it for real?"

"It's not like that...." He stammered the words, but I could see the guilt written on his face. I could also see the impatience that was beginning to turn to anger.

"Good! Because it's never going to happen! I married a man, Harry! I married someone I wanted to be with for the rest of my life... I would never tolerate someone who wants his wife to have sex with other men! And if I'm not enough for you, then just tell me and I'll pack my bags and leave!"

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" he yelled, standing up and sweeping his plate and what was left on it from the table. "Why can't you just lighten up? Millions of people have fantasies. And if they have a good relationship they share them and they enjoy them. Why do you have to get so fuckin' hung up about it?"

"Oh... so it's all my fault, is it?" I almost screamed as I stood up and faced him. "Nothing at all to do with ideas being put in your head by your depraved pal and his cheap tart then is it?"

I was fighting back tears with every word, but I was determined not to let go. We've never had many rows and this was probably the worst so far, and it was certainly the first where he'd ever turned on his heel, grabbed his coat, and walked out.

"I'm going to the pub... to get some peace!" he snapped.

"Great!" I snapped back as I followed him down the hallway, "I'll invite a few blokes over while you're gone shall I? Any preference for numbers? Black? White? A few of each, maybe? Should I add a lesbian or...?"

But that was then the front door slammed behind him. I was left on my own, and the tears had tumbled helplessly down my face. 

He came home a little over two hours later, reeking of booze and staggering slightly, but not a word was spoken. In fact, we didn't speak for a couple of days and, even at work, there had been a definite chill. Morton, of course, came into the office acting the part of a concerned friend. He was probably disappointed to find that the stories of an angry wife slipping into the arms of a sympathetic friend were just that... stories. I didn't actually tell him to 'piss off,' but I'm pretty sure he got the message.

Gradually, of course, things quietened down. Harry and I started by being civil to one another, and then began to find things to laugh at together, until finally we were expressing our love for another. The only unfortunate thing was that, just as we'd both swallowed enough of our pride to apologise for the way we'd behaved, my period prevented us from sealing our 'rehabilitation' properly.

Which brings me back (at last), to the night we ducked out of the partying to celebrate Annabelle and Morton's engagement. To be fair, we did have things to do the following day -- we were heading off for a four-day break in Scotland -- but an early start wasn't on the agenda as we were driving to our destination.

As soon as we'd finished saying our farewells to the revellers (well, shouted them to be heard above the din!) and stepped out into the cool night air, I told Harry;

"Oh... by the way... my period's over... so you're free to fuck the living daylights out of me tonight if you want to!"

The way his mouth opened in surprise made me laugh (he wasn't used to hearing language like that from me) and, before he had time to recover, I was at the edge of the pavement trying to flag a taxi. Two of them sped by without even seeming to notice me so, just as Harry joined me, I continued to flag with one hand while I raised my skirt to reveal a lot of thigh with the other. Almost immediately, a cab screeched to a halt beside us!

We were giggling like a couple of kids as we tumbled into the back seat -- and even more so when the cabbie grinned at me and said: "Bloody, hell, Love! With legs as good as that you could stop an invading army in its tracks!"

"Why, thank you, kind sir," I finally managed between giggles, "And would you be so good as to convey us to our mansion?" And I gave him the address.

It was only a fifteen minute drive, but it was a lot of fun. Harry joined in the banter by using a ridiculously posh voice to apologise that 'her ladyship' may have imbibed a glass too many of liquid refreshment. The banter between the three of us continued all the way home, the taxi driver seeming to almost enjoy it as much as we did. I say 'almost' because we had an additional pleasure as Harry slid a hand between my thighs to gently stroke and tease me with his fingers, while I had the pleasure of exploring the hardness I found lurking beneath the front of his trousers.

When we reached our house, I said goodnight to the cabbie as Harry was paying the fare and I dashed to the front door to get out of the drizzling rain and, when my husband eventually caught up with me and slipped his key into the lock, I asked what had taken so long.

"Well... the cabbie was asking if there were many still left in the disco," Harry explained, "but I think it was really just an excuse to gaze at your ass as you walked up the path!"

That was my turn for a jaw-drop moment; but I recovered quickly: "A dirty old man, then?" I said.

"He's younger than me," Harry answered.

"Mmmm... better looking, too," I teased as I reached for the light switch -- then squealed as harry put his hands on either side of my waist and squeezed.

"Shame on you!" he laughed as I tried frantically to wriggle free (I am extremely ticklish!), "And you a married woman!" he added as he released me and our arms snaked around each other.

"You're quite right," I teased, "In fact, I think you'd better hurry up if you're going to take me upstairs and fuck me before my husband gets home!"

Now this, I should explain, had nothing whatsoever to do with the fantasies on Literotica. This was something we'd often done in the past. After a night out together, one or other of us would suddenly begin to pretend that we were getting together for the first time. There was never any suggestion of being with anyone else; we were always ourselves. There were times when it worked so well that it was almost as if we were making love for the very first time -- as we'd both confirmed afterwards. It wasn't freaky or perverted; it just added a little frisson of added excitement to whatever we chose to do with each other.

On this occasion, we didn't even make it up the stairs! I'd just turned away and was still on the first step when his hands suddenly reached up beneath my skirt, grabbed my pants and hauled them down to my knees before I realised what was happening. I was giggling and (though I'm a little embarrassed to admit) squealing like a young girl as pushed me down onto my knees. I heard the sound of his trousers being undone before he finished pulling my pants off. Then his left arm curled around me from behind while his right hand guided his erection between my legs.

Okay, I can tell you that kneeling on a staircase is not the most comfortable position or place for sex but, at that moment, I wasn't the least bit interested in moving. It took a little bit of manoeuvring, accompanied by a lot of giggles, before he finally found the place he was looking for and I felt that bulbous head part the wet lips of my entrance and slide smoothly inside me.

It may have been my imagination, or maybe it was just my mood, but he seemed to be even harder than usual -- but it definitely wasn't anything that I was going to complain about as he began with the long, slow strokes of good intention. Grasping my hips, he pushed all the way into me without any sense of urgency and then withdrew almost entirely -- again very, very languorously. I had been more than ready for this and my body was already crying out for release so urgently that I had to bite on my lip to prevent myself from urging him to go faster.

If I'd been capable of logical thought, I would have known that it wasn't necessary. Harry has never been a particularly patient person and that was as true of his lovemaking as it was of everything else. At the same time, he cared enough to make sure that I would always have the release of at least one climax -- even if it meant having to spend lots of time in foreplay or, at other times, a second helping soon after the first had finished. But this was a little different. Perhaps it was due to the location -- he could hardly have been comfortable half-standing, half-kneeling on the stair beneath me -- but it was delicious for me! I was able to really appreciate the contours of his prominent veins as they pressed against the clenching walls of my insides.

I also loved the feeling of helplessness -- of being virtually unable to move due to my slightly precarious perch on the stair -- and it was all that I could do to straighten my upper body so that Harry's hands could reach around, slide them beneath my top and bra, and fondle my breasts and nipples. Even that didn't last for long; it reduced the extent of penetration so much that he almost slipped away from me and, when his hands went back to grasping my hips, I couldn't hold back any longer.

"Fuck me, Harry!" I begged, "Please... just fuck me!"

It surprised him, because I don't normally have a lot to say at times like that. I mean, I gasp and groan and make a lot of excited noises, but I don't usually say much. This time, though, I felt as if it had very little to do with love; this was acting spontaneously, on the spot, like a couple of animals -- and that went perfectly with my feeling of vulnerability.

There was a feeling of a tremendous pressure building inside me -- a delightful tension that quickly increased beyond my control. I knew that Harry was talking to me as his thrusting became faster and that I was responding to what he said, but the words seemed meaningless. I vaguely recall telling him that, 'yes... I wanted him to shoot his load in my cunt' -- probably the first time I'd ever used that word -- that I loved the feel of his cock inside me, and probably a load of other things too. 

What they were, however, I can never be certain because my strong and vigorous husband grasped my hips tightly and started to pound me mercilessly. My voice was lost in a flurry of sobs, gasps and, at last, an all-out scream as I felt the glory of total release. I felt the warmth of fluid -- more fluid than I'd ever known before -- pouring onto the skirt that was bunched up in front of me and cascading onto my thighs. It seemed that my entire mind and body was shutting down, unable to cope with the intensity of the ecstatic feelings that swept through me.




Dawn In The Dark Ch. 02



If Harry hadn't held me so firmly I probably would have collapsed forward helplessly, but his strong arms kept me in place while he began to reach towards his own release. He was hammering me -- pounding into me so fiercely that it was painful enough to make me whimper -- but I welcomed every rapturous moment. And then, with a final emphatic thrust that made me yell as my insides convulsed with a sharp and unexpected pain, I felt the entirely new sensation of the heat of his ejaculation being propelled into the furthest recesses of my helpless, welcoming body.

It was the first time I'd ever really felt his liquid seed erupt inside me. I'd always been aware of his climax; always felt the twitching and throbbing of his hardness -- but this time I genuinely experienced the feel of his hot fluid and, incredibly, it made me cum a second time. It wasn't anything like as spectacular as the first one -- my body probably wasn't capable of repeating that so soon -- but it was a gloriously spreading warmth that engulfed me and made me sob with a pleasure beyond anything I'd ever reached before.

I wasn't really aware of my husband gently and slowly withdrawing me. My response, as he carefully released my hips from his grasp and slowly stood up behind me was a longing to just stretch out where I was and fall into a heavenly, contented sleep. I was vaguely aware that he was adjusting his clothing, but I was somewhere on another planet and didn't really care too much.

"Come on, Hon," I heard him say gently as he lifted me to my feet, then he picked me up and began to carry me up the stairs. Please try not to laugh at this, but I remember worrying that we'd left stains on the stair carpet! Thank heavens I didn't mention it, because I would have been teased unmercifully for a very long time afterwards, but it's one of those things that makes me wonder how the human mind (okay... the female mind if you prefer!) works sometimes. So he carried me into our bedroom and was about to lay me down on the bed when I told him that I needed the bathroom first.

Before I came out of there, I cleaned myself up as thoroughly as I could and dumped all my clothes in the wash basket, hazily wondering whether the skirt had been completely ruined. It was a 'dry clean only' item, and I honestly couldn't imagine myself taking it there to be done! When I stepped back into the bedroom, still feeling a bit dazed, I first noticed that Harry had closed the shutters. 

I was glad of that. I hate being awakened by early morning sunlight at the best of the times -- and I was certain that I wouldn't want to wake up too early the next day. Then I looked at the bed and gasped with a mixture of delight, uncertainty and concern. 

Harry had pushed the covers down and was lying, naked, on his back. His blonde hair was tousled, his handsome face glowed with happiness and his blue eyes sparkled with mischief. As my eyes travelled downwards, I took in the wide, powerful shoulders, the light covering of hair on his chest that thinned down to a narrower strip on his stomach. I didn't, on this occasion, get as far as appreciating the long, well-muscled legs because, before I could get that far, my eyes were caught and held by the sight of the large solid erection that -- with the aid of a gently-stroking hand -- was pointing straight up towards the ceiling!

"Oh... my... God!" I whispered, which made his features crease into a beaming smile.

"Well... it has been a while, Hon!" he explained.

I was frozen for a moment or two. Harry looked absolutely gorgeous -- he always has done when he's naked -- and thing in his hand was compellingly attractive, but....

"Harry... I'm a bit... well, tender... y'know?" I said hesitantly.

"Ah... never mind," he smirked, obviously feeling pleased with himself, "Come here and I'll kiss it all better!"

So why would I ever dream of refusing an invitation like that? Moments later I was spread-eagled on the bed and my husband was eagerly kissing me and licking me a great deal more than just 'better.' In fact, his lips and tongue brought me to two more wonderful orgasms before I finally insisted on returning his kindness. 

Unlike Harry, who insisted on keeping the lights on while he went down on me, I prefer the lights to be off. I want him to feel what I'm doing to him -- to just relax and enjoy the sensations rather than feeling committed to doing anything in return. I don't mind the lights being on -- we've done it that way many times -- it's just a matter of preference. So the lights were off, the room plunged into the state of perfect darkness that I love so much, and I began to tease and caress his genitals with my fingers, my tongue and my lips. 

There was no haste about it, I wanted him to experience all the pleasures I could give him, so it was some time before I actually began attempting to take as much of the length of it as I could into my mouth. It tasted slightly strange because it wasn't all that long since it had been totally enclosed within my incredibly wet body -- but that knowledge only seemed to add to my enjoyment. I'm not going to give a blow by blow account (no pun intended!) of what I did or of the way he reacted to what I did. Suffice it to say that, just as my jaw was beginning to ache and I was starting to doubt my ability to finish what I'd started, I felt the familiar jerking and twitching begin. Sucking as hard as I was able, I bobbed my head up and down on it rapidly and rubbed my hand along the shaft until - a moment after he groaned loudly - the first portion of creamy fluid was pumped into my mouth. 

Ignoring the salty and somewhat earthy taste, I went on sucking and rubbing as more and more of it was ejected; continuing until the final few drops had to be virtually milked from him. I felt unusually proud of myself because I knew, from his reactions, that he'd enjoyed it even more than he normally does. So proud of myself, in fact, that I didn't rush off to the bathroom to spit it into the basin and brush away the taste. No, for only about the third or fourth time ever, I did the thing properly.

I was still holding his rapidly diminishing erection when I leaned close to his ear and whispered;

"I've swallowed it... do you like that?" and I felt him twitch so much that I thought he might be getting hard again! "If that's another one starting," I told him, you'll have to save it for tomorrow!"

"Bloody hell!" he gasped, "that was fantastic! You're fantastic, Dawn!"

"You're not so bad yourself," I laughed, "What made so randy tonight, though?"

That was a question that I shouldn't have asked. I mean, it was conversation... I didn't even really need to know the answer.

"D'you want the truth?" he asked, and there was a strange nervousness to his voice that, even in the darkness, was unmistakable. I hesitated, wondering whether perhaps he'd been fantasising about being given a blow job by some other woman. 'I could probably accept that,' I thought, 'but if it happens to be Annabelle I'm going to squeeze his balls so hard....'

"I was fantasising that you were giving a blow job to someone else. I was pretending that we'd invited that taxi driver into the house with us...."

"Harry... I don't think...." I began, but he was in full flow, and he went on;

"I was imagining that I hadn't enough money for the fare... so we brought him inside while I got some money from the drawer. Anyway, I paid him the fare and then you suddenly said something like, 'but don't you think he deserves a good tip?' Then you grinned at me and went down on your knees in front of him and unfastened his zip...."

"Harry... I'm really very tired," I said. 

I didn't want to hear the rest of it. I had a definite suspicion that the episode on the stairs may have been provoked by a similar fantasy, but I really didn't want to know.

"But I want to talk," he moaned, "I want to tell you about what I'm thinking... what I'm feeling and...."

"Harry... we've got four days in Scotland. We'll have time to ourselves. You can tell me whatever you want to while we're there," I said wearily, and with a heavy heart.

"But...."

"And I'll listen to you. Okay? But I need some sleep, Harry... I really need some sleep."

Strangely, perhaps, it was Harry who fell into a deep and apparently untroubled sleep. I could tell that by the sound of his very gentle snoring as I lay awake, feeling troubled and wondering what the future held.



Dawn In The Dark Ch. 03



Edinburgh is an extraordinary city – even in the rain – and the four days we were there weren't really enough to do it full justice. We stayed at the Ballantrae Albany Hotel (which was excellent!) and, during the day, we did the usual tourist stuff: We climbed the 287 steps to the top of the Sir Walter Scott monument (it was my idea, but I was the one who was gasping for breath by the time we got there!) and we have a certificate to say that we did. Naturally, we went to the castle, spent ages exploring and watched the firing of the gun at 1 pm. 

On another day, there was a trip to the Camera Obscurer (only five storeys of stairs this time!) and the exhibition of optical illusions was one of the most fascinating things we'd ever seen.

The nightlife was really good – loads of pubs, clubs and restaurants – and we were pretty well 'fed and watered' every night.

Which leaves the time we spent in our bedroom.

If you've read the first two parts of this story you'll know that we had a growing problem over the issue of introducing fantasies into lovemaking. Harry had been directed to the 'Loving Wives' section of Literotica by his business partner, Morton, and Morton's fiancée. In particular, it seemed as if he was beginning to become a little too enthralled by the stories of cheating wives, wife sharers and the so-called 'swinging.' I was not the least bit happy with this development.

I'd challenged him about it while we'd been driving north on the M6, but he was reluctant to talk, claiming that he needed to concentrate on his driving; but I was determined to find out why, the previous night he'd decided to imagine that the blow job I was giving him was actually being given to the taxi driver who'd brought us home.

It wasn't until we'd left the motorway and were on the 'A' roads that he finally gave in and tried to explain what it was all about. It was obviously difficult to voice his thoughts, so I was as patient as I could be, just encouraging him to talk rather than giving him the third degree. I won't try to repeat the entire conversation – a lot of it covered the same ground several times – but I'll try to summarise as best I can.

Firstly, he insisted that he didn't want to see me having any kind of sexual relationship with another man. He insisted that he would be intensely jealous if anything like that happened and the guy would probably end up in the foundations of something he was building. 

Secondly, he didn't want to be with any other woman. He couldn't help looking when an attractive female was in the immediate vicinity but, as he said, many females dressed to attract male attention. 

Thirdly, the stories he'd read had turned him on. He couldn't deny that. He'd never been a great reader, but those stories had captured his imagination and it had been his hope that I'd respond in a similar way and that – together – we could indulge in a bit of fantasy role play. That was all it would ever be, he'd insisted. 

"So... basically," I asked, "You want me to be a saint outside the house, an angel in the kitchen... and a slut in the bedroom? Is that right?"

"You mean you aren't?" he grinned, unable to resist the opportunity. Then he yelped at the thump he received on the side of his thigh.

That first night, we were tired from the travelling and unpacking, from the lateness and excitement of the previous night (my legs still ached a bit from kneeling on the stairs!) and from the dinner in the hotel's signature restaurant. When we went to bed, we kissed and we cuddled and we fell fast asleep. We made up for it in the morning.

I was awake quite early (bloody sunshine!), but I did my best to shelter my eyes beneath the covers for a while – at least until Harry sneaked his arm around me from behind and I realised that he was also awake. I gave a little moan about being disturbed, but I moaned louder and was disturbed far more when the hand steadily crossed my stomach and came to rest on my breast. I was torn between wanting my 'ten minutes more' and the tingling feeling that his touch produced but, by the time his fingers closed on my nipple and found it treacherously receptive, it was no contest.

My moan quickly turned to a purr of contentment as his fingers played and teased; sometimes no more than a feather-light brushing of flesh on flesh, then a gentle squeeze between forefinger and thumb. I felt him move in close behind me and, as his lips pressed warmly onto the nape of my neck, I could also feel a very solid erection pressing against my thighs. 

First thing in the morning, the 'spoons' position is definitely my favoured option, as Harry well knew and frequently took advantage of, so my 'resistance' (not the right word, really) was always pretty much guaranteed to be non-existent. In his cruder moments, Harry called the position a 'lazy fuck,' because it required very little effort from either of us.

His kisses were now spreading across my shoulders – delightfully – because that is definitely one of my erogenous zones and then he was nibbling at my earlobe (another one!), obviously enjoying the effect he was having on me. And then I heard his breathy whisper saying; "I love you more than you'll ever know, Dawn," and I virtually melted into the mattress.

His long left arm edged its way gently past my neck, reached my other breast, and began to fondle me slowly and gently. Both of my breasts and nipples were now receiving the kind of attention they most appreciated but, before long, his right hand was retracing its path down across my stomach and his extended fingers brushed through my pubic hair in search of the damp warmth that they guarded.

There have been times when I've clamped my thighs together at that point, trying to make him pay more attention to the upper portion of my body – but this wasn't one of those times. Without any hesitation, I eased my legs apart to give him all the access he desired. 

He had no problem finding what he wanted; I was already wet with arousal and his first touch made me groan with pleasure. He ran the tip of his middle finger up the full length of my lubricous outer lips, making my legs twitch as if I was beginning to get cramp and then, pressing slightly to flick it lightly across the small bud of my clitoris – which almost made me squeal – he eased it past the inner folds of flesh and very slowly pushed it into the depths of my body.

It felt so enjoyable that I had to bury my face in the pillow – otherwise, I think I would have yelled loud enough to wake not just the hotel but the whole of Albany Street! As he worked his finger back and forth, I knew that I was very close to a shattering climax, but I didn't want it be with his fingers – I wanted the real the real thing. That was when I hooked my leg back over his legs – the signal he was so used to that told him I wanted him inside me (and I said Harry wasn't a patient lover!) and he was more than ready to accede to my needs.

He left his finger against my lips, using it to guide his erection into position. The first attempt was just a little too hasty and the tip merely slid across the lubrication, but the second attempt was perfect. The bulbous head parted the entrance with ease and then the whole length buried itself in me, giving me that inexplicable feeling of fullness that I'd always loved so much.

This time, he didn't even need to thrust; as soon as he was fully enclosed in me and his hand returned to squeeze my breast, I came! It was just as well that my face was sunk into the pillow because I shrieked helplessly with the sheer rapture of it. Albany Street? I'd have woken the whole of Edinburgh! Harry remained still while this was happening, pressed as far into me as he could reach for what seemed eternity although it was probably far less than a minute and then, as my spasms died away, he began to pound against me. 

I gently placed my legs together, trying to squeeze him because I was afraid that my climax had made me so wet that it might reduce the feeling and I desperately wanted to give him the same pleasure he'd given me. Not surprisingly, perhaps, that didn't take long. The squelching noises, and the slaps as flesh met flesh, grew louder and faster until, with a huge groan, he injected gushing streams of warm fluid into my eagerly absorbing insides.

We stayed just as we were until he eventually softened enough that I couldn't hold him in place any longer and then, like a couple of synchronised swimmers, we both turned onto our backs with deep, contented sighs. Turning my head towards him, I tried my best innocent look as I said;

"Thank you. That was very nice. Errm... what did you say your name was again?"

"Ohhh... you wicked woman!" he declared, turning to me and grabbing my waist. "So... you want to take the piss out of my perverted fantasies, do you?" And this time I did shriek as he tickled me.

That day started well and got better as it went on and, while we were in Edinburgh, we made love at least once every night and started the days off in similar fashion. It was only on the final night that any further mention was made on the subject of fantasies.

It was started by a news item we saw on the TV in the bar. It seems that a couple had decided to adopt the so-called 'swinging' lifestyle, but the husband had been humiliated when he found that none of the other wives in their 'circle' was even slightly interested in him. Meanwhile, his wife had proved to be enormously popular. It had ended in an argument that turned into a rowdy fight; the police were called, two people were seriously injured and the couple were now 'estranged.' It was one of those items where the newsreader struggled to keep a straight face and, when they showed pictures of a quite glamorous middle-aged wife and her less-than-handsome husband (I'm being generous), I found it difficult not to laugh as well.

I don't know who mentioned it first when we went to bed, but I know I ended up teasing Harry about it – telling him that if he'd ever wondered what 'swingers' really looked like – now he knew.

"Okay...okay!" he laughed "and they were probably writing stories for Literotica as well!"

"Probably!" I laughed, "And I bet he described himself as someone who's never had trouble getting any action because he was tall and handsome... with a 10" cock as thick as a wrist." And we both laughed together and added to the descriptions of the couple with the kind of phrases so often used on that site. Then Harry became a bit more serious.

"Okay, Hon... so, if you were writing a story about us," he asked, "How would you describe me?"

"Seriously?"

"Yes...seriously."

"Do you mean as a person? Or are we just talking about physical appearance?"

"Physically."

"Errm... okay," I began uncertainly, "Well... I'd have to start with your height. Then... I'd mention your blonde hair and... let me think a moment. Yes... I'd say you had eyes as blue as a clear, mountain pool... that my heart told me to dive into as soon as I saw them."

"Oooh! Very literary!" he teased "So far so good... carry on."

"Well... I remember hearing an old song on the radio the other day and there was a line in it that went something like 'kinda broad at the shoulder and narrow at the hip.' I think I'd have to steal that one. Oh... and I'd have to mention that you were strong... that you were a lot smarter than you pretended to be... and... errm... that you have a lovely big cock!" I laughed to hide my blushes, but he said;

"I think I'm pretty average in that department, Hon."

"Really? Well if you think that's 'average,' I definitely don't want to be confronted with one you'd call large!"

"Right! You're saying that now...." He laughed.

"Okay, smartarse!" I said, "Now it's your turn. How would you describe me? Oh... and keep it serious. Any mention of saggy boobs or an arse the size of Africa and you'll be waking up in a hospital bed!"

"Fair enough!" he laughed, "I'm not that good with words, so don't jump down my throat if I say it wrong. Okay?" I nodded and he went on;

"Well, like you did to me, I'll start with your hair. As far as I remember, it's naturally a pale, brownish colour," and he paused to grin at me, "But it was blonde in our wedding photos... and now it's a dark brown."

All of which was true, I do like to change the colour from time to time.

"Anyway... its beautiful hair," he went on, "It feels really thick, the kind I love to run my fingers through... and I love the way you're just able to run a brush through it and it seems to fall into place. I also love the fact that you let it grow long... it seems more feminine somehow.

"You have a pretty face, Hon... I think I'd call it 'sweet.' And those dark green eyes of yours... wow! D'you know what? Sometimes it can really turn me one just to look into your eyes. Mind you, you're so small that I can't do that too often!"

Fair enough, he made me giggle and I said; "Okay... so far I'm a shortarse with long, dyed hair and a sweet face. Cut to the chase, Harry!"

"Alright... you have a small, but very neat bust; your waist is narrow and your stomach's flat – but we might do something to change that before too long." My heart seemed to miss a beat. Did he mean what I thought? Was he hinting about starting a family? "Your arse is definitely not the size of Africa!" he went on, "You have quite narrow hips and a very pert little bum. Your legs are longer than they've any right to be on such a small frame... and they're nicely shaped. Oh... and they're always lovely and smooth... but I wish you'd get your own razors to keep them that way instead of nicking mine! How will that do?"

"I think you're a flatterer, Mr Wilson," I smiled, "But I love you for it." 

"I've only said what I see," he replied, "and I think you underestimate your looks Mrs Wilson."

"Ooh... you charmer," I cooed, "You'll do for me!" and I gave him a gentle kiss on his neck.

"Anyway... I can give you an absolute guarantee that I don't ever want to share you with anyone," he said gravely.

"Good!" I said, "Because it's never going to happen and...."

"To be honest," he went on, "when I see other blokes eyeing you up, it doesn't turn me on like those men in the stories. It just makes me feel really proud that you're mine, and that I'm the one you chose... and I'm the one with exclusive rights to you."

"You make me sound like a bit of land you're going to develop," I chuckled.

"Sorry... I didn't mean it to sound like that. I mean, I don't want to smother you or anything like that. I just want you to know that there'll never be anyone else for me – and I don't want there to be anyone else for you. I mean... I don't mind a bit of flirting... a very little bit... that's human nature. We all do it, don't we?"

I nodded agreement. Flirting is almost an unconscious action at times; we all do it, often without even realising that we're doing it. I still wondered where he was going with the conversation, but I kept quiet and just gave him another little kiss on his shoulder.

"You see, Hon," he continued, much less certainly, "I was talking to Anna... Annabelle... a couple of days before the engagement party, and I said something about Morton putting the shackles on her... something like that. Anyway... she said there was no chance of that! I asked what that meant and... well... she told me that they were into all kinds of weird stuff."

"Tell me... do I look shocked?" I asked dryly; but there was a very nervous fluttering in my stomach.

"No... you're a much better judge of character than me," he smiled, then went on, "she told me that Morton was hoping to get us involved."

"Harry!"

"Wait... don't jump to conclusions, Hon. Please?" he said, "She'd made it clear to him that the idea was a complete non-starter. She'd told him that couples who were really in love with each other – like us – simply weren't interested in their kind of lifestyle."

"So why...?"

"Literotica?" he asked, and I nodded.

"Morton did that. He wouldn't believe what she was telling him and... well... it was just as you told me. He really wanted... wants... to get to you. I'm sorry I found that so hard to believe at the time but me and Morton... well... we go back a long way...."

"It's okay... I understand that but...."

"So I confronted Morton. I told him we couldn't be partners anymore."

"What? But... but the company...."

"The company used to be a fifty-fifty thing. But when you came into it... the best move we ever made, by the way," he grinned, "We each gave up half a per cent of our stock to make you an executive director in charge of finance. After I'd talked to him, we took legal advice and a contract was drawn up to split the company. He knew he didn't have a choice because we can force it through. Anyway, the deal is that Morton takes on the civil engineering part of it under his name, and the house building side of it – which is going to be called 'Wilson Family Homes' by the way – will be ours."

"But... Harry... I mean," I didn't know what I meant because there was so much to absorb but I trailed off with, "are you sure about this? What about...?"

"I'm certain, Hon," he said with determination, "We bought up the old wasteland where the Alhambra cinema and car park used to be. It was cheap because no one wanted it, so that's where Morton's new place is going to be. That came out of his share once we'd worked out the value of all of our assets and so on."

"Why didn't you tell me? How did you...?"

"I didn't tell you because I was afraid you'd raise too many objections. You might even feel guilty... feel that you were splitting up a long friendship. We paid a firm of accountants to work it all out... and a damned good solicitor to draw up the contracts. I'm sorry for keeping secrets from you. I won't ever do that again... but I wanted it sorted, and it is."

"And what about Morton?"

"Oh... he's happy enough. He's never enjoyed house-building... his thing is about roads and sewers and bridges and all that. I dare say he's disappointed that he never got into your knickers, of course... but he's just going to have to learn how to live with that, isn't he?"

I was dizzy from all he'd told me and, with what was to happen shortly afterwards, it was a long time before I was really able to take it all in. All I could do was wrap my arms tightly around him and cuddle as closely as I could to his naked body. But then a thought occurred to me and I drew back, saying:

"So what was all that about using fantasies?"

"Oh... I still like that idea, Hon!" he laughed, "but I probably didn't explain it properly – you know I'm not that god with words."

"So... try again," I said.

"With a nervous smile on his face, he did his best. "As far I'm concerned, everything about our life together is perfect... and that definitely includes what we do in the bedroom...."

"And the kitchen and the shower... and the sunbed on the patio... and the staircase," I interrupted.

"Yep... and don't forget the lane behind Mark & Spencer... and the back of the van... and the sea off Dinard on our honeymoon... and...."

"Okay...okay! Enough!" I laughed, "Get on with it!"

"As I said," he whispered, "I couldn't ask for more. But I love it when we have our little adventures together and I don't ever want things to go stale between us. That's why the Literotica stories gave me the idea that, when we don't have as many opportunities as we'd like, we could use our imaginations a bit. Y'know?"

"Errm... well... we're a long way from 'stale,' Harry... but I suppose we could try a sort of rehearsal." I said and then, with a wicked grin; "Who do you want to pretend you're with? Annabelle, maybe?"

"You can be pure evil at times, you know," he laughed, "and the answer's 'no.' A thousand times, no! Anyway... I am a gentleman... so its ladies first!"




Dawn In The Dark Ch. 03



"Oh God! I don't know," I frowned, "I mean, what do you want me to do?"

"Just close your eyes, Hon," he answered soothingly, "And when I begin to touch you... just imagine that it's someone else. You've a good imagination. I mean... maybe someone you were with in the past?"

"If they'd been as good as you are, I'd have married them before I met you," I giggled, but I was desperately trying to think of someone... anyone... to please him. And then I had an idea.

"Okay... I've thought of someone... someone from the past. I think I'd probably call him a near miss!"

"Eh? How d'you mean?"

"It was one of those where... how can I explain it...? If it hadn't been for circumstances... it might have happened."

"Oh... right!" he smiled, "So... keep your eyes closed and tell me a bit about him while I just...." And then he stopped talking as he pulled the covers back, leaned over, and drew one of my nipples into his mouth.

"Ooh... right," I said and then, trying to control my breathing while his hands began to wander delicately, I went on: "His name was Alec. He worked at the same office when I was training as an accountant. And...." I had to stop for a moment because Harry's tongue was tracing little circles around my belly button (Yes... another erogenous zone! It would probably be easier to tell you which parts of me aren't!), as I shivered and gasped.

"Go on," he urged.

"Errm... okay... well, he was older than me... thirtyish, I guess. He had blonde hair and blue eyes and he was in surprisingly good condition for someone who sat behind a desk all day. He was divorced and I think most of the girls were quite keen on him... but then we heard he was transferring to our office in Hong Kong."

"Mmm, hmmm!" Harry murmured, "Keep going... I can hear you." I wasn't sure about that, because his face was now between my legs and he was lapping gently at my labia.

"There was a leaving party for him a couple of days before he was setting off. All of the women were in their finery... even the married ones... all hoping for a little fling with the office hunk, I suppose. I know he was practically danced off his feet... but then he came over and asked me to dance with him and I almost melted. It was the 'Lambada.' It's a very sexy dance when you know the moves – and both of us knew them all... ooh, that's nice," I said as the tip of his tongue eased between my outer lips.

"Go on!" he whispered, a bit breathlessly.

"Well... eventually, everyone was just standing around watching us. I could see envious looks on a lot of female faces... and when I ground my backside into him, I could feel that I was having an obvious effect. Anyway, when the music stopped, we were facing each other in a tight and sexy embrace. There was a lot of applause and whooping noises – and we just stayed like that until we started gently moving to the slow number that came on next.

"Of course, I couldn't keep him to myself and he had to dance with others... but he kept coming back to me whenever he could. At the end of the night, when the party broke up, I'd just collected my coat when he suddenly appeared alongside me and asked me to come for a final, farewell drink in the residents' bar... he was staying there for a couple of nights before leaving... so we went through and sat in a small alcove by the window. We talked for a while and then, of course, he suggested going to his room to finish off the night in style."

I had to stop again because Harry's tongue was now doing serious things to my clit, but he stopped when I did, so I forced myself to continue.

"I had to turn him down. I was having my period... which I sort of hinted at... and he was very understanding about it. We walked out to the doors together and, before I could do anything about it, he took me in his arms and gave me the most incredibly hot kiss! I didn't want it to end. I could feel his erection pressing against me and I really wanted to be able to walk across to the lift and just go to his room with him. I think I cursed my timing and... why've you stopped?"

"Shhh... keep your eyes closed, Hon," Harry instructed, "keep that image in your mind. Imagine that it wasn't that time of the month... that you were free to do as you pleased. Imagine that you've gone to his room. You've kissed and touched and undressed each other... and now you're both naked in bed. Close your eyes... and let me be Alec. Just let it happen, Dawn."

And that is what I did. As Harry made love to me very slowly and very patiently, I must have breathed the name 'Alec' many times. Even when I was gasping, groaning and yelping through one of the many orgasms he gave me, it was Alec that I called out to. And then, when his own climax was approaching, I cried out;

"Yes... Oh, God... yes! Give it to me, Alec! Cum in me! Please... cum in me, Alex! Do it! Yes... do it... fill me!" when I felt the rock solid cock twitch madly against my inner walls as his cum gushed into me like an overactive geyser.

It wasn't Harry's usual form to just collapse on top of me, but that's what he did – as if he was totally exhausted. It made it difficult, but not impossible, for me to breathe... but I didn't complain. 

The clock told me that it had been two and a half hours since we'd come to bed, and I'd no idea how much of that had been taken up by the sex – but it must have a been a decent proportion of it. Finally, with an exhausted groan, he withdrew and managed to roll off me quite gently.

"Bloody hell!" He gasped, "You've fucked me to a standstill, Mrs Wilson!"

"No... that was Alec!" I smiled and he grinned back at me.

"So what ever happened to him?" he asked.

"I've no idea," I replied sweetly, "I heard he was happy over there... and I think someone may have said that he'd married again... but I haven't heard of him since then."

"That's a pity," he said wearily, "he seems to have been quite a guy. I think I'd have probably liked to meet him."

I nearly spoilt the moment by saying 'so would I,' but I managed to keep that to myself. Alec, of course, was purely a figment of the imagination I'd been asked to use. I'd been asked to pretend, so I'd pretended... to pretend... if you see what I mean. If you want to split hairs, I suppose you could say that I'd cheated... but not in anything like the way that term is normally used on Literotica!

The main thing was that I'd enjoyed myself and so had my husband. I knew that he'd want to repeat the experience, but I told him that wouldn't happen until he'd taken his turn at pretending and telling me about it.

The following morning we checked out of that lovely hotel and took a short stroll before going back to the car. We wanted to avoid the early morning rush hour and we took the opportunity to talk about the new companies. It was due to become official at the end of the week and both of them had plenty of work to keep them going. It only needed my signature on the contracts which, Harry told me, were waiting for me in the desk in our study. He wanted me to look at it all first, to check all the details so I could be satisfied it would work.

I was thinking about it as we drove down the roads towards the motorway. I'd certainly be glad to see a lot less of 'Mr Prick,' but I knew there would be a lot to do if we were going to get it onto a sound business footing. After a while, I put it out of my head and remembered the night before. I was wondering whether I ought to tell Harry that 'Alec' was not only a figment of my imagination, but was actually loosely based on Harry himself. I think I'd just about decided that it was best to let sleeping dogs lie – Harry seemed perfectly happy with it – when the whole world came crashing down on us.

We were on the slip road, about to enter the inside lane of the motorway and not going very fast, when there was suddenly a horrible screeching noise. The next noise I recall is a terrible sound of tortured metal and it seemed as we were flying through the air instead of travelling on the ground. 

I know my head hit something – I actually heard the crack.

But that was all I can remember until I woke up in a hospital bed!



Dawn In The Dark Ch. 04



INTRODUCTION:

This is the final episode of this story. I've had a lot of encouraging comments; for which, thank you sincerely. I trust that some of the 'anonymous' may feel just a bit embarrassed when they find out that it isn't what they'd believed it to be -- but I won't hold my breath waiting for any apologies! This one means a lot to me -- hopefully you'll understand why when you reach the end -- and it's also just about written itself at times. 

*

It wasn't just the bed and its covers that made me feel warm and comfortable, it was also the complete darkness of my bedroom. That room, thanks to my husband's attention to detail -- and his consideration -- was my sanctuary and my refuge.

Some people are afraid of the dark and I can understand that; walking home on my own one time after a power cut, on a moonless night, I will admit that I was terrified. But that was different; there were strangely-shaped shadows that moved eerily as the wind moved the branches of the trees, and every sound seemed to echo or be enhanced in some way. My room was different. There were no shadows because there was no light, and the unimpaired blackness of my surroundings was as comforting as a favourite blanket.

That night, I seemed to have folded it around me. Perhaps I was unconsciously trying to hide from all the pressures and strains of the way my life had gone; I don't know, I'm no psychologist, but I do know that I was under a lot of stress at the time. I'd spent the evening at home, as usual, but I'd had Annabelle to keep me company. 

Okay, if you've been following this story, I know that may come as a surprise so I'd better explain a little.

Although we hadn't exactly hit it off to begin with, after the accident Annabelle -- or Anna as she preferred to be known and which I was now used to calling her -- had turned out to be rather different from my early impression of her. She was, of course, in her own words, 'a self-admitted, cock-hungry slut,' but she was so open about it that it simply made me laugh. That was her lifestyle -- and she was very well aware that it could never be mine. I'm not going to go into her personal history (she's already decided to that herself on this site eventually), but I ended up feeling unable to find any way to condemn her for what she was and what she did. 

Once you got past that, she was actually a lovely person. Whilst I was in the process of recovering, she would come around almost every day to cook and clean -- and it was a bit embarrassing to find that she was a far more efficient cleaner than I've ever been! I also discovered that she was far more intelligent than her bubbly personality made her out to be. She took an interest in everything; world news, politics; scientific progress -- you name it. Therefore, when she had an occasional free evening (not that there were many, given the social life she led with her fiancé, Morton), I enjoyed being able to relax over a glass or two of wine with her and swap some stories about our very different backgrounds.

The previous evening had been the latest of our get-togethers. We'd drank some wine, sent out for an Indian takeaway meal and talked for hours. Disappointingly perhaps, for some readers, there was no mention of sex or of our partners -- it was a real 'girls' night in' where we talked about holidays we'd enjoyed, our very different schooldays, clothes, music -- stuff like that. We hadn't really noticed time passing until it was very late and, not for the first time, decided that she should sleep in the spare room rather than make the journey home.

I know that I'd been very slightly drunk -- not staggering or, I hope, talking a load of rubbish as I sometimes do when I've had too much -- but I had a nice glow about me as I insisted on leaving the clearing up for the next day, and we went to our rooms tired but contented.

I must have been more tired than I'd realised because I didn't even bother to put my pyjamas on, I just stripped, threw all the clothes into the laundry basket and practically fell into my bed. I slept well -- very well -- which was exactly what I really needed.

What time it was when I was disturbed, I had no idea. As I've said, the room -- my wonderful haven -- was totally dark, and I think I was probably in that state of half-waking, half-sleeping or, possibly, just emerging from a pleasant dream, when I felt the familiar sensation of a warm hand stealing across my body and gently clasping my breast. It felt so pleasant that I wasn't the least bit disturbed by it, especially when Harry's thumb and forefinger tweaked my instantly responsive nipple.

I think I just managed a small groan of pleasure, kept my eyes closed, and wallowed in the exquisite feelings. As ever, there was a gentle series of feathery kisses planted on the back of my neck and across my shoulders, quickly followed by the consciousness of his warm body pressing closer and the unambiguous intention announced by the wickedly solid shaft that pressed against the back of my thighs. 

Moments later, his left arm slid around me so that, for a few seconds, both of my nipples received the attention they craved. That made me gasp with pleasure, but it was brief-lived as one hand made the short journey downwards to where the impatient warmth and wetness craved its touch.

It was almost unreal -- as if my mind had simply closed down and left my body to accept the delights being offered -- as if it was, perhaps, the ideal continuation of whatever dream I'd been having, and I made no attempt to halt its progress when a finger found the already wet place it was seeking. There wasn't the usual slow and sensual touching and stroking, the stiffened finger merely pressed straight into me and began to poke back and forth vigorously but, in my highly charged state, that fitted well with my mood. So well, in fact, that I lazily parted my legs as the tip of the rigid erection sought to replace the industrious finger. 

That was when it happened! There was a sharp stinging feeling, as if something was tugging fiercely on one of my hairs, and it made me give a small, but aggrieved yelp. It also made me reach, down automatically to make whatever adjustment was necessary to ease it, and it only took a second to learn that that the bracelet-type watchstrap had managed to trap one of my pubic hairs as the finger was working on me.

Was it that pain that brought me to my senses? Or was it the realisation that Harry never wore a watch? Maybe it was both. I suppose I'll never know. What I do know is that I suddenly understood that it wasn't Harry who was trying, frantically now, to insert his erection into me! For a second, maybe two, I simply froze with the horror of what was happening, and that brief hesitation was very nearly enough to bring about a disaster.

Recovering, I immediately tried to wriggle free, but the hand that was against my entrance tightened and tried to hold me in place while the hard penis poked desperately in search of invasion. I kept on squirming, trying to get free of it but, whoever was holding me was clearly strong and, when I tried to scream, the hand that had been fondling my breast was suddenly clamped over my mouth and I heard Morton's voice say:

"Shut up, you stupid bitch! You know you want it! You haven't had any for...."

And that was when he screamed -- far louder than I could ever have managed -- because I bit down on one of his fingers as hard as I could and refused to stop. As his grip on me loosened and his erection moved back a little way, I instantly reached behind me, found his balls, and squeezed them just as fiercely as I could possibly manage to.

"You fucking cow!" he yelled. His finger was pulled from between my teeth and his hand went to my throat and began to squeeze, but I had already pulled my legs and hips well away from him and freed one leg from the covers as I tried to escape from the bed. He was still determinedly trying to throw his nearest leg across me and force me onto my back and I lost my grip on his balls but, when he began to move across as if to mount me, I began to pummel him with both hands. 

To be honest, I never had a chance of winning. He grasped my wrists and pushed me down, forcing his legs between mine, and I heard his grating voice again;

"You'll fucking-well pay for that, you nasty bitch. You could have had a nice fuck... now you're going to find out what a really rough shag feels like!"

I tried to scream, but it just didn't happen, my throat felt too constricted and I could feel the tears of anguish already tumbling down my face. And that is when the room was suddenly flooded with light.

For a moment or two I was blinded by it and couldn't see anything, but I heard Morton say:

"You're just in time to see this cunt get what it needs...." Before Anna's voice said:

"You fucking asshole!" and, at almost the same time, there was a piercingly loud 'crack' and Morton slumped on top of me.

I was too stunned to move. I couldn't begin to work out what had happened, but Morton was being moved off me -- pushed off me -- and Anna was saying; "Come on, Dawn... let's get you away from here," as she slipped an arm around me and helped me to get off the bed and stand up on very shaky legs. Before she could say anything else, I practically dived into the bathroom and started to vomit into the toilet bowl. 

I was still there on my knees, crying, sobbing and trembling violently, when she came in with some underwear she'd found in my drawers, plus a pair of jeans and a jumper. "You're okay," she said, "That bastard's still unconscious! I hit him with a wine bottle... an empty one," she added, as if it mattered, "they don't shatter like they do in the movies, do they?"

"Is he alright?" I asked, though God knows why.

"D'you think I care? Worthless piece of shit!" she said furiously, and then, "Look love... if you want me to call the police and get him done for attempted rape, I'm fine with it! I'll back you up all the way. Right now, if you like!"

"No... that wouldn't be good," I replied. Until then, I hadn't been capable of really thinking, but I knew that a criminal case, with attendant publicity, wasn't going to help. Anna tried asking again, saying that some time in prison -- with the possibility of learning what rape felt like from the victim's point of view - would do the 'lousy cunt' some good. It was only when she was certain of my wishes that she said:

"Okay! I suppose I'd better go and see if killed the fucker... or if I have to call an ambulance. You should probably have a shower and get dressed. I'll make us a cup of tea when you're ready."

"Where did the wine bottle come from?" I asked, although I don't know why. I think I was still in shock.

"I brought it upstairs with me to finish off after you tottered up to bed last night," she grinned, "Just as well, really... or I'd probably have to compensate you for breaking that nice bedside lamp over his thick head!"

She closed the door behind her and I remained where I was for a little while. Then I heard her saying:

"Oh! Still alive are you?" and, whatever his reply was, she went on, "Right! Get your useless fucking ass down those stairs and out the door!" Then: "If you need treatment, take yourself to the hospital... and don't forget to tell them it's an injury received while you were trying to rape your best pal's wife!" I didn't hear what he said, his voice was too low, but Anna's reply was clear enough.

"You must be fucking joking! Stay with a rapist? No chance! We're through, Shithouse! I'll be over to collect my things as soon as I make sure your victim's okay! Now... get the fuck out of my sight before I decide to see if it's possible to actually smash that bottle over your thick skull!"

I heard the door being slammed and locked and, before she felt it necessary to come and see if I was okay, I managed to persuade my still-trembling legs to support me while I stepped into the shower and turned it on. 

Even though I'd been rescued in time, I still felt unbelievably dirty and grubby. It was almost impossible to believe that I'd allowed Morton, however unknowingly, to touch and fondle me so intimately. I began to wonder if I was really all that much different from Anna; if I was just as capable, given the right circumstances, of giving way to those same instincts - to wonder if my senses were always properly controlled by the mind that is so vaunted by human beings.

I stayed in the shower for a long time, washing myself over and over again (when I told Anna about that later, she made me laugh with a hilarious comparison with Lady Macbeth!) until I finally dried myself off, dressed, and went to the kitchen where Anna was waiting for me. "The traditional British remedy for shock," she announced, "A cup of hot, sweet tea!" and pointed to a steaming mug on the kitchen table.

"Anna... thank you," I said sincerely, aware that I hadn't done so before, but she brushed it aside as if she was embarrassed. We sat down at the table and, without even noticing I was doing it, I got stuck into the slices of buttered toast she'd prepared.  

As I ate, and sipped at the scalding liquid, she told me that we'd both forgotten about locking the front door the previous night. Because she hadn't told Morton where she was going, he'd probably assumed that it was an assignation with one of their 'swinger' friends. Her guess was that he'd been miffed when she hadn't returned in the morning and decided to come to my house to see if he could make any kind of progress with me. Finding the door unlocked, and me so soundly asleep, he was obviously prepared to take a risk -- possibly reasoning that I'd never dare tell Harry about it.

"Are you really through with him?" I asked.

"You jus' bet your sweet li'l ol' ass, Honey," she said, in the worst mock southern belle accent I'd ever heard in my life; but it made me laugh. Then she changed the subject. "Tell me about Harry," she said, "What's the latest?"

For a second or two, I wasn't sure that I wanted to say anything, but then I realised that I was just being foolish. Anna liked Harry, but she didn't 'like' him the way she 'liked' single men. She'd told me, many times, that he was gorgeous and that we were the loveliest couple she'd ever met -- even if our expressions of love for one another turned her stomach sometimes -- and we somehow preserved a grain of faith that it was possible for two people to be truly happy together.

Since the accident, she'd turned out to be my unexpected best friend. In fact, it had been her face I'd seen when I first woke up. Actually, that isn't strictly true; apparently I'd slipped in and out of consciousness many times before I was finally able to open my eyes and take in my surroundings. 

I had, and still have, very little recollection of the accident. I've been told that, as we were emerging onto the motorway, a BMW X5 driver, suddenly realising that he was likely to miss his exit, executed a stupidly dangerous overtaking manoeuvre and swerved into the inside lane. He struck our car on the driver's side and sent us spinning then hurtling into, and over, the barriers at the side -- coming to land, upside down, some 150 yards further away. The BMW driver completely lost control and swerved into the path of an oncoming articulated lorry. We survived; he didn't.

After the rescue services had managed to cut us from the remains of our car, we were airlifted to hospital and I have to say, whenever I hear people complaining about the National Health Service, I feel a strong desire to spit in their faces. We were given the best treatment you could possibly expect anywhere. 

In my case, there was far less to be done. Apart from the bang on my head -- which gave cause for concern for a few days -- I came away relatively unscathed. Of course, I did have a broken right leg, four cracked ribs and a hell of a lot of painful bruising, but the only cuts were on the right side of my face and neck; being thrown to one side meant that the windscreen glass almost completely missed me and I ended up with just a few small scars -- most of which have more or less faded and can be easily concealed with make-up.

Harry, however, was on the side of the car that took the brunt, not only of the initial collision, but the impact with the barriers and the eventual 'landing.' Both of his legs were broken, one foot was almost completely crushed, and there was so much internal damage that it was touch and go whether he'd survive or not. 

Once I was conscious, I kept asking about him -- demanding to know how he was -- and worrying more and more when my questions weren't being answered. It was only when a surgeon came to see me, told me that I'd need another few days in hospital for 'observation,' and that my husband was being 'well looked after,' that I completely 'lost it.'

I swore and I cursed (when you've spent a bit of time around building sites, there aren't many profanities that you're unfamiliar with!) and told him that, if someone didn't tell me exactly how my husband was in the next five minutes, I'd get out of my bed and walk all around the hospital until I found him and found out for myself! (I meant it at the time -- my leg was plastered and my ribs strapped up -- and the chances were that I'd have fallen on my face before I made it out of the ward - but I'd have given it a bloody good try!)

The surgeon looked shell-shocked. I'm sure he hadn't expected that kind of tirade, but he promised to return within the five minute deadline -- and he did. That was when I learned that Harry had still not regained consciousness and, very gently, he told me that my husband was due for surgery that same day which would probably determine a great deal. I insisted that I should have a wheelchair so that I could be taken to his bedside as soon as he returned from it. He hesitated, but when I said that I intended to be there one way or another, he sighed and gave the instructions.

As he and his entourage exited, the really sweet old lady in the bed next to mine looked over at me and I was prepared for a rebuke. Instead, she beamed at me and said:

"Brilliant, My Love! High time someone took that arrogant fucker down a peg or two!"

The nurses and porters weren't disturbed -- it was Anna who turned up and insisted on taking me in the wheelchair. She'd been in to see Harry a few times after she'd visited me, so she knew the way. She also warned me to be prepared, telling me that there were quite a few facial injuries and to steel myself for what I was about to see. It was just as well, because my beautiful Harry was almost unrecognisable that first time I saw him.

I cried. I cried an awful lot of tears and it very nearly broke my heart to see him like that. One of the nurses suggested taking me away but, fortunately, Anna understood me better than that. She knew that I'd go when I was ready and not before, and told the nurse that. After that, until I was able to master the crutches they gave me, Anna took me to see him every day and we spent many hours together at his bedside.

The surgeon had learned to approach me warily, and also to give me undiluted information about Harry's condition. He was happy to tell me that the operations had been successful and my husband was officially out of imminent danger. He also told me that the healing process was going to be long and protracted -- that it was by no means certain that Harry would ever be able to walk again, and that he was probably going to lose his sight in one eye (those eyes as blue as a clear, mountain pool... that my heart told me to dive into!) and that damage to his groin meant it was impossible to determine whether or not he'd be able to obtain an erection again.

I wasn't there when my husband first recovered consciousness, that happened in the middle of the night before I was due to be discharged; but I was there the next day when he woke up, sitting in a chair by the bed, and the first words he heard were; "I love you more than life itself, my Harry."




Dawn In The Dark Ch. 04



When I was discharged, I stayed in a hotel nearby so that I could visit every day -- and the doctors and nurses seemed not to mind that I spent so much time probably getting in the way as they went about their business. A week or so later, Harry was transferred to our own local hospital, and Anna insisted on chauffeuring me there for my daily visits. Occasionally, she'd come up to the ward with me and sit for an hour or so but, for the most part, she just left me to it and picked me up again later.

It was nearly three months later before Harry was allowed home. At first, it was just for a weekend because he was still in a wheelchair and they weren't sure how I'd cope with all that was involved in that. He was so happy, though, that it wasn't long before he was back permanently. The district nurse came to see him every day at first, then it was every other day, then once a week as she determined that I was perfectly capable of taking proper care of him.

Anna offered to help -- and she certainly did when it came to cooking, cleaning and ironing -- which she did so cheerfully that it was always a delight to see her. She offered to help with some of the more personal things, but I was happy to take care of all of that. I was his wife, so it was only right that I should be the one who helped when he needed the toilet, when he bathed, when he got dressed and undressed. Those, and similar jobs, were mine and mine alone.

After a few more weeks, he began to try walking on crutches. It was possible -- but only for a few steps because the pain was etched onto his face each time he tried. The physiotherapists did all they could for him, but progress was very little in evidence. For myself, I was just happy when I was able to share our bed with him again, and delighted that he welcomed the darkness of our room. It didn't matter that there was nothing really physical between us, I was content to be able to kiss him goodnight and to welcome the mornings the same way. I know it may seem unbelievable to some of the readers on this site, but the absence of sex didn't bother me in the slightest. Our love for each other was always more important than that.

If I remember correctly, it was a Wednesday morning that Anna turned up at the house with a very good-looking and very smartly dressed man. I invited them in, nervously, and took them through to the living room where Harry was relaxing in his favourite armchair. 

"This is Lambert Mortenson the third," she announced proudly indicating her companion and, when it failed to make any expression, she went on, "He's an American... and probably one of the finest surgeons in the world... as well as being a very good friend of mine."

Harry and I looked at each other, both wondering what it was all about -- but we soon found out. 'Lamb,' as Anna called him, sat down with Harry and began to ask him a lot of questions about his operations, about how he felt, what he was and wasn't able to do, and so on. It was clear that he was already familiar with much of it, and that he was mostly confirming what he already knew, but his thoroughness was impressive. At the end of it, he turned and addressed all of us.

"I am reasonably sure that I can help," he announced, in the kind of cultured voice that some Americans have -- more English than most Englishmen, "I don't want anyone expecting too much... but I believe that I can operate on Mr Wilson and enable him to walk again. It won't be any kind of miracle cure. It's going to take time. In fact it may take more than one process... and there won't be any absolute guarantee of success. I hope you'll all understand that."

"Mr Mortenson... I need to know what this is going to cost..." Harry said tentatively, but Anna quickly told him that it was already taken care of. (I later discovered -- to my shame -- that it wasn't any kind of wild sexual transaction such as I'd imagined; it was just Anna spending some of the cash that she'd been left by her late husband).

We talked a lot more, of course, but the upshot was that Harry desperately wanted the chance to recover his feet and be able to be his own man again and, although I was nervous about it, I was also excited at the prospect of being able to see him walk again. We had just about nodded our agreement when 'Lamb' got to his feet, saying;

"Right... it's agreed then. Be ready to leave next Monday morning at eight o'clock. You'll be picked up and taken to a clinic in the countryside of Kent where you'll be staying for at least a month... possibly longer. It's a private facility I've used before for English patients. I'll see you there." And he prepared to leave.

"But what about..." I began, but he turned and gave me a beaming smile.

"As for you, Mrs Wilson... I want you to stay at home for now," and when I went to protest he went on, "Note that I said 'for now.' You'll be able to visit for a few hours next Saturday... and each Saturday after that. And I'm well aware of the way you treat surgeons who seem arrogant!" he said with a wonderfully friendly grin, "But please understand that my concern is for my patient. I give you my word that it's in his best interests."

I was still hesitant, but Anna put her hand on my arm and said: "Dawn, you can trust Lamb. I said he's one of the best... a lot of people say he's the very best. He knows what he's doing." There was almost a pleading look in her eyes and it mirrored the one in Harry's so that, after a second or two, my shoulders slumped and I gave in. 

So now, when she asked me "What's the latest about Harry?" I was only able to tell her that he'd had two operations and that 'Lamb' had pronounced himself 'satisfied' with both of them. He was never there when I visited. I was told it was because he had patients in many different parts of the world, but I had a sneaking suspicion he was also keeping out of my way in case I demanded to know more than he was willing to tell me. When I questioned any of the doctors, they simply shrugged and told me I'd have to ask Mr Mortenson.

"But how does he seem?" Anna asked me, "You know... in himself?"

"He seems pretty good, to be honest," I answered her, "he was telling me that that the main difference between private care and NHS was prettier nurses!"

"Then he's definitely on the mend!" Anna laughed, "When's he coming home?"

"Next Saturday, I was told," I said.

"And how's he getting here?" she asked, because I was still wasn't happy driving and Anna had done most of that for me.

"In the same ambulance that took him there, I'm told," I chuckled. We'd seen the ambulance -- it was a huge, luxurious affair that was more like a mobile home than an ambulance. "I don't know whether I'm more eager or more nervous. Mind you... after last night...." And I shivered as the awful memory came surging back and made me burst into tears again. "Could you imagine if he'd come home and found that I'd...." I couldn't manage to finish the sentence and Anna quickly rose to put a comforting arm around my shoulders. After a few minutes, she said:

"Tell you what, Dawn... I'm going over to 'shit-for-brains' house to get my stuff. There isn't much, really... most of its still at my old apartment... I never did move in properly. I'll be a little while because I need to tell him his fortune. Then, if you like, I'll come and stay in the spare room 'til Friday... help you get the place ready for a homecoming. Okay?"

Well, I don't know exactly what she told him what his 'fortune' was going to be, but I heard that Morton sold his company a few weeks later -- at a knockdown price -- and moved to Spain, shortly before their building boom began to implode. We haven't heard anything from him since.

For the rest of the week we enjoyed one another's company tremendously. We redecorated the kitchen, and went shopping together for clothes. Anna was brilliant, with comments like; "That's much too 'tarty' for you, Dawn... I'll take that one!" and "That's perfect! It makes you look vulnerable... and that's what he'll want to see. You'll have to give him the chance of feeling that he's the man of the house again... your strength and your protector."

I followed her advice (for the most part, anyway) and she was also a big help in sorting out the business. She was a long way from being an accountant, but she ought to have been given a degree in common sense. It was Anna who, while I was in hospital, had made Geoff Murphy take charge of the day-to-day running of things. He was in his fifties and had been in the business for most of his life. He'd done an excellent job. 

The books were up to date because she'd hired another 'friend' who'd failed the final part of his accountancy exams (from nerves, and I couldn't blame him for that because I'd only just scraped through it myself), and, once again, I couldn't fault what he'd done.

By Friday evening, as she loaded her Landrover up with her possessions, I was almost crying to see her leave. It was even worse when she told me that she was shortly going on a bit of a tour that would take a year or two at least. "Don't worry, Dawn," she told me, "I'll be back to see you... you should know that. You're probably the best friend I've ever had. Anyway, if you don't hear from me for a while... just check out the 'erotic couplings' on Literotica." And then she was in the car, waving, and disappearing down the road.

On Saturday morning, my nerves were so on edge that I couldn't settle to anything. I hadn't been told exactly what time he'd be arriving, so there were times when I needed to go to the toilet but didn't dare to in case he arrived when I was in there. Eventually, of course, I had to go and, (Sod's law!) I was almost caught out. I was actually on my way back down the stairs when, through the landing window, I saw the huge 'ambulance' pulling in and parking on the drive. I hurried down, flung the door open, and stood there waiting while my heart rate went into overdrive.

After a moment or two, the rear doors opened and Harry was pushed onto the hydraulic ramp in a wheelchair. I was aware that it didn't matter to me whether he could walk or not or whether we could hope to make love or not; I wanted him with me, beside me, always.

I watched as the tall handsome figure of Lambert Mortenson III pushed him gently to the foot of the three steps in front of the door. He was beaming. "I'll leave you two lovebirds to get reacquainted for now," he said, "and I'll be back later in the week to see how you're getting on.

Then I gasped with shock as Harry carefully and very slowly, climbed to his feet and, clutched at the rail and slowly made his stiff-legged way up the steps. 

I couldn't help myself. I burst into floods of the happiest tears I'd ever known and, as I threw my arms around him, I heard him whisper: "I love you more than you'll ever know, Dawn!"

EPILOGUE:

That was over a year ago. For the most part, Harry still has to use a stick to get around comfortably because the foot that was crushed in the accident will never be quite right. He still has enough vision from his injured to "See that he has the most beautiful wife in the world," so he tells me, and there is only one thing left that left that hasn't completely healed.

As yet, he hasn't been able to obtain an erection. He insists on satisfying my 'needs' with his hands and his lips even though it isn't really necessary. It's enough for me that he's there beside me when I go to sleep; that he's chased away the bad memories of the night our bed was invaded simply with the comfort of his presence. 

He knows, because I've told him very truthfully, that a couple of guys tried to hit me when he was in hospital and that I repulsed their advances very sharply (Both Anna and I agreed to say nothing about Morton -- we didn't see any point in telling him the extent to which his former best pal had tried to betray him). He asked if I wasn't even a little bit tempted, so I again told him the truth. 

"Anyone can be tempted. But, although I'm not the least bit religious, I promised to 'forsake all others;' and that was 'for better, for worse... in sickness and in health.' And nothing will ever change that."

We have enough money to retire if we wanted to now (the luxury homes were all sold, and all at the asking price, and another similar project is under way with Geoff Murphy taking very competent charge), but Harry likes to oversee the business himself and still likes to have me checking what he calls 'Whatever our failed accountant is doing.'

And there is still hope. 

The other morning, when he 'spooned' behind me in bed, I felt a definite twitching and slight beginning of the hardness that I love. Someday, maybe soon (although I'm happy to wait!) that thing is going to blossom again. And when it does, I'll be ready! I'm still happy to believe that, someday, Harry will be able to give me the baby that will make our lives complete.

POSTSCRIPT:

If you don't like the ending -- tough! It ends that way because this story was inspired by a friend of mine. 

Most of it is fiction, of course, but my friend (I'll call her Dawn and her husband Harry, even though those aren't their names) went through exactly this kind of hell. The real-life 'Harry' used to race motorbikes -- just for a hobby -- and he was involved in a near fatal crash. His injuries were horrific. 

Through the long process of mending, he was in and out of hospital many times and it was thought that the lower part of his body would remain totally useless for the rest of his life.

During that time, 'Dawn,' who was, and still is, an exquisitely beautiful lady (She was 23 at the time of the accident and is now in her thirties) was 'hit on' many times by predatory males -- many of whom were more than acceptable by anyone's standards. She was resolute, however, never gave up hope, and absolutely refused to betray her husband. She was the one who reminded me that she'd taken vows she would never dream of breaking.

I was with her one time -- we were having a cup of coffee in a 'Costa' shop - when two very attractive young men tried to chat us up. I wasn't interested (I'm in a pretty good relationship) and I was deeply impressed by the way she politely, but firmly, turned them away. It was obvious that she'd become fairly used to doing that.

She also managed her husband's motor repair shop business when he wasn't able to be there -- very successfully, I might add.

A brilliant surgeon did eventually operate on her 'Harry' and with excellent results. To cut to the chase, they now have a beautiful 4-year-old daughter (I'm her proud godmother!) with another child on the way.

Although I'm sure she'll never read it here, this story is my tribute to her, to her lovely husband and, of course, to my wonderful goddaughter.

THE END