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Dark Clouds and Silver Linings |
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By Margo Perry
I've never had an anxiety attack. Can one cause blackouts? Explain my being in my house one minute and in Gourmet Foods, fifteen blocks away, the next? I’m wheeling my cart around, hoping so, because being permanently crazy is not an option. I won’t let any man do that to me.
This market is always spotless and well-ordered. I’m wobbly and need the familiar wide aisles, the soft music and lights, the expensively dressed, fashionable shoppers buying organic foods that are woefully expensive, but considered safe for consumption. If I were myself, I’d have taken the time to change clothing. My jeans are too worn and my baggy top doesn’t hide my gigantic breasts, or accentuate my tiny waist that has somehow withstood the ravages of eight years of marriage. But, despite my un-dress, I’m accepted as part of the neighbourhood for which this place exists and today, I need the greetings of friends and the nods of strangers. It’s grounding me, in the aftermath of the emotional earthquake I’ve just suffered.
I’ve been here for an hour. I choose fruits and vegetables because of their vibrant colours, the shape and smooth skin of the peppers and the delicate curling edges of kale. The butternut squash reminds me of a woman’s curves, the cucumber of a porn star’s penis. I put the cucumber back.
Straight ahead, I notice Marcus bagging at the check out; virile bodied, youthful Marcus, my neighbour’s twenty-one year old son. To the annoyance of his father and my husband, he has refused their invitation to join their law firm. They’re both in awe of his intellectual brilliance, but despise that he’s not fulfilling what they consider his potential. My husband sneers, calls Marcus a snotty young buck, but that’s the last thing he is. He’s sweet, laid back and self-assured. Husband Theodore is jealous of his youth, his independence and the fact that the wives in our gated community adore him.
Why shouldn’t we? He spent the summer popping up at our doors, shirtless and ready to mow our manicured lawns or tend our gardens. He has the touch. He has nurtured them into a blaze of colour and fragrance notes and is now the favourite subject of our coffee clutches and the object of our shared fantasies.
He’s now charming a woman I don’t know. She’s exquisitely dressed, wealthy-thin and flirts from behind designer sunglasses. He’s laughing and I’m finding him more alluring than the serenity I thought I’d come here to find. I feel my nipples stirring and my shouldered weight of anger and hopelessness begins to transform into an aggressive horniness that is alien, but welcome. I realize that I’m slouching and pull myself up. My breasts protrude like beacons of new life. I wait until the last person is being checked-out and dash into line. It’s my turn, in more ways than one.
It’s been months since Theodore seduced me or was responsive to my attempts to seduce him. I resent him for leaving me alone and horny this weekend. I’d made grand plans to get our sexual relationship back on track, but he rejected me; he had business out of town. He left, calling me childish, and phoned twenty minutes later contrite, needing an address from his laptop. He’d forgotten it, left it in our pool room. He was uncharacteristically nervous in directing me to the file and too anxious that I immediately shut it down.
I noticed a camera, mounted and stashed behind a large leafy plant that I’d bought to give some colour to the stuffy mahogany-panelled room. Had he bought it while I was away visiting my parents last week? Had he been filming pool shots?
Something was nagging at me. I found his file and lied about shutting down his computer. I went searching and found an unholy stash of porn films featuring himself and his long-standing personal secretary, Hilda. Theodore is fifty-five, twenty-five years my senior, and Hilda is sixty. I didn’t know the old girl had it in her. I didn’t know that when I was away, she was in my house, splayed across the pool table, my husband between her legs, fucking the bejesus out of her; filmed for prosperity, but then viewed, eventually for my edification.
I went crazy, weeping and wailing and gnashing my teeth, but finally settled down.
I returned to the evidence and watched for half an hour, both aroused and enraged. Their intense sexual pleasure underlined my sexual deprivation and Theodore’s deceit instantly annihilated any need I harboured to remain a faithful or loving wife. For that, I was and still am grateful.
I honestly don’t remember what I did after that. I know I ended up in this grocery store.
I’m a realist. I like to know where I stand, to be able to move away from emotional quicksand. Standing here, drinking in the curve of Marcus’ back as he bends over my grocery bags, still leaves me feeling like a woman scorned, but vaguely. I feel younger and dangerously liberated. I’m overjoyed that Theodore has unwittingly packed my common sense, restraint and need for respectability in his suitcase, along with the rest of his personal items. Where else could they have gone?
Marcus is bagging my groceries, all $400 worth, including the Scotch and a bottle each of vintage red and white wine. Everything I’ve bought is on a whim and exorbitant. I don’t care. Fuck Theodore!
Shirley, my cashier, is a store fixture who prides herself on her efficiency and speed. I wish she’d take her time. I’m indulging in what I’ve resisted all summer, my pull toward Marcus. Marcus is a beautiful animal who has breathed raw life into the females of our circle. Our husbands are too used to us. They expect us to feel special, just because we’re their wives, but we need to be shown and Marcus’ attentiveness fills the bill. His every flirtation is a silent proposal that he never follows up. That makes him the ultimate tease.
All four of us friends are afraid he’ll make a move on one of us some day and, in our hearts, each desperately wants him to; especially me, especially today.
Marcus catches my eye. His are lazy brown and his shoulder length hair, pulled back in a pony tail, exposes his gorgeous chiselled face and soft full lips. I want them all over me and my pulse quickens to prove it. My skin in tingling and an unsettling throb has settled deep in my pussy.
I’m thinking that Theodore is a pudgy, moneyed little man who owes me plenty.
Shirley has finished ringing up my groceries and I pass her my credit card.
“Thanks, Mrs. Banner.”
Mrs. Banner
I feel guilty for a second, but the newly born cougar eats the old loving wife. Marcus cruises my body, follows the pendulous weight of my tits down past my waist. His T-shirt is so tight that it dissolves in my mind’s eye and I can see his naked bronzed torso, rippling with muscle. He’s a wild young stallion and I suddenly feel the need to break him, make him mine. My pussy is oozing and the intensity of my feelings terrifies me; but not enough to stop.
“I’d like these delivered,” I hear myself say.
I’m taking a foolish chance, since only Marcus will do, and he’s bagging today. There’s a host of other delivery boys for Shirley to choose from. I can’t demand Marcus.
Yes, you can.
As Shirley searches her computer for a delivery person and time, I capture Marcus’ attention with a hand that absentmindedly traces my cleavage. My pink tongue caresses my lips and my eyes drop to the bulge in his jeans. His teasing smile disappears and his lips fall open in surprise. He looks younger. His vulnerability and lack of experience has been exposed. I’ve taken control and he feels it. His pants are now full of cock which tells me that he knows that I’m demanding, and likes it. His flushed face tells me that he’s in way over his head and I chuckle.
“Shirley, n-n-no worries. I’m off in an hour and I’ll drop the order off at the Banner’s.”
He is stammering. I’m tingling with power.
“Thanks, Marcus. You’re such a good boy,” Shirley says, turning away from her crammed schedule.
“A very good boy,” I say, debauching her innocent comment, my voice thick with lust.
“Thanks, Shirley,” I say, my tone noncommittal.
I don’t look at Marcus, as I accidently rub my breasts against his arm in passing, but I can feel his eyes boring into my back all the way to the exit. I know that he’s aroused and confused by the sudden change in me, but so am I, and I want more. The tepid warmth and vanilla flavouring of this exchange isn’t enough for me. I want different. I want us on a dangerous ledge.
My station wagon chirps like a silly bird and I climb in, picturing the sporty red BMW that Theodore tools around in. It’s younger that his years, but he’s fitted himself to it. Marriage has un-glamorized my style and wardrobe. I’m now perfectly coordinated with the sedate safety of my Toyota. I start the car, turn on the radio and find a rock station. Theodore hates rock. As I back up and head for the parking lot exit, I turn the music up loud and open the windows to the chilly November air. The goosebumps on my skin and the defiant voice of Freddy Mercury exhilarate me and I drive too fast.
Despite crawling traffic, I make it home in fifteen minutes, strip and head for the shower. I think of Theodore as I unwind the French twist that he prefers because it tames my wild curls. I drop the pins in my bathroom’s pink trash basket and pledge to redecorate the whole house to fit the new me; that’s if I choose to stay. I scrub my skin, washing away the memory of the tears I’ve shed since morning, the rage I’ve felt.
When we first discussed marriage, I offered Theodore a menu of styles. He chose monogamy and promised that any change would be mutually agreed on. Theodore has broken the contract that our marriage would be just and fair, whether open or closed. I feel robbed and I don’t take burglary lightly.
I sigh. I’m done grieving what might have been. Marcus is on his way. I wash my hair. I’ll let it dry naturally and a cascade of riotous curls will soon frame my face, fall over my shoulders and down my back. I remember this me, full of anticipation, horny and glad. I choose a red lace bra and high-cut panty set that lifts my tits and accentuates my long legs. I choose to go barefoot, something Theodore soundly disapproves of, and slip a red diaphanous caftan over top, a naughty honeymoon gift from a girlfriend. Theodore finds it slutty and it is. It’s meant to be. The front is so mini that it barely hides my crotch and the back is floor length. A little eye make-up, a smear of lip gloss, and I’m good to go.
I examine myself in our full length mirror, twist and turn. Not bad, but attitude is everything. I need height and heels. I choose a pair of red stiletto sandals, happy that I’ve had a pedicure and manicure this week. I think I look like a young Liz Taylor, but with wild hair and without a horse. I giggle as I hear a car pull around to the side of the house, run down to the kitchen, and wait. This isn’t the first time Marcus has delivered my groceries, but it’s the first time he’s delivered himself.
I hear his approach and take him off guard, opening the door before he can knock. He begins his spiel, but his words fall away as recognition grows. We stare at each other, wordless, both breathing hard.
“Come in, Marcus. Come in if you dare.”
“I brought your groceries, Mrs. . . .”
“Jenny. The name’s Jenny, unless you’re ready to call me Mistress J?”
I turn away from the door, leaving it wide open. I’m excited by the terror that flushes his rich tan. He rushes away to the car and I’m amused by the smell of cologne that lingers in his wake. He’s an exotic fruit, ripe for the plucking.
Our kitchen is huge with plenty of counter space and a large freezer and fridge. I sit at the table and watch as he runs back and forth, transporting bag after bag. When he’s done, he stares at me, shifting weight nervously from one foot to another.
I’m enjoying his discomfort, but it isn’t enough. I get up and begin opening cupboard doors. I grab a bottle of Theodore’s specialty beers, open it and pass it to Marcus. I’ve seen him sipping beers in the garden. He doesn’t guzzle, he tastes. I pour myself a glass of wine and sit back down at the table. He’s still standing, dazed and mute, his eyes darting, but always coming back to my tits. We’re in this together.
“I want you to pack away the groceries. I like the way you move.”
“I can’t. I don’t know where to . . .”
“It doesn’t matter where you put them, Baby. I just want to watch you moving around my kitchen.”
The colour of his eyes seems to have darkened and the lazy confidence is gone. I can read his mind. He’s trying to close me out, put this event into some perspective. He scans the cupboards, before grabbing two bags and heading for the freezer. He hasn’t even tasted his beer and studiously ignores me. I pull my chair a little away from the table, turn it to face the freezer and spread my legs. I use both hands to massage my tits. They’re so big, so sensitive. I groan in anticipation and a startled Marcus looks in my direction. I ignore his stare, lift a tit and nibble my nipple right through the thin material. A wet stain darkens the fabric to a blood red. Marcus grabs a stack of frozen pizzas, stacks them, and slams the freezer door.
“You’re not drinking your beer.”
“I can’t. I have to drive.”
His voice is plaintive and pre-cum has oozed a wet spot onto his jeans. He’s back where I need him to be.
“You won’t have to drive for a while, but bring me the bottle.”
He retrieves it from the counter and offers it to me.
“Here,” I say, indicating the space between my legs. “I’m getting too hot, too soon.”
He does what I say, and I grab his hand. The cold shocks my skin and seeps through my panties to mix with my pussy heat. His eyes are thinking again and he pulls his hand away, as if scorched.
“I should . . . the groceries aren’t put away.”
“Please, tell me the frozen stuff is put away.”
My voice is hoarse, impatient.
“Yeah … they’re put away.”
His voice has dropped an octave.
“Come.”
I lock the door, take his hand and lead him downstairs to the pool room.
“This is gorgeous,” he says, looking around. “Do you play?” I have no time for this. I don’t answer. “Of course you do, with this table in your house,” he answers himself, his words tumbling together.
“We need music.” I turn on the sound system and cool jazz spills from the surrounding speakers.
“Now,” I say, climbing onto the table, “let’s get down to business.”
Marcus takes a step back, as if he’s about to run. I move my hands over my thighs. He can’t help himself. His eyes follow the movement of my hands. He can see my damp panties, hear my growing arousal, smell my dripping pussy.
“Strip for me, my beautiful baby boy, and make it slow.”
He’s awkward at first, pulling off his top, stooping to get rid of his sneakers and socks. When he recovers, he is proud of his six-pack and the length and girth of the cock challenging his jeans. He unzips slowly, wiggles out of his jeans like a pro. He’s moving to the music. He slips his jockeys over his hips, down and down, until he can step out of them. His cock is pulsing, hard and thick. I can see pre-cum oozing out of its head.
“Please, can I touch it?” He sounds like a child begging for mommy’s milk and I know he’ll do whatever I ask.
“Wet your hand and stroke.”
I hope my voice is firm. Everything inside me is quivering on the edge of orgasm. It must be because he raises his hand to his mouth, spits, and begins to stroke.
I kneel and shift my shoulders. The caftan drops. I get free of it and toss it onto the floor. Marcus’ eyes are glued to my tits, to my every move. I lie, turn onto my side, and breast flesh flows onto the expanse of green felt.
Marcus strokes his cock, closing his eyes now and then. The sight of my breasts, as I raise one tit to my mouth and suckle the nipple, is chasing him to the edge. I don’t have much time.
I raise myself onto an elbow, spread my legs and move my panties aside. My pussy is gleaming. I begin stroking with him. I squeeze my clit. I moan.
“I’m going to come,” he says.
He grunts and his legs almost buckle.
He’s teetering on the edge. I quickly slide out of my panties. My pussy juice will leave its message on Theodore’s precious pool table. He protected it with a blanket before fucking Hilda. I open my legs, slide two fingers in and gasp as my tight pussy muscles lock onto my fingers.
“Hurry,” I say.
Our mouths are hot, smearing wet, our kisses unbridled. Our legs intertwine, our groins press and push. There’s a storm that doesn’t exist and I hear thunder and pelting rain. I roll on top of him and feel his hard cock on my belly. He rolls on top of me and I can’t wait.
“Fuck me,” I cry loud enough for Theodore to hear, where ever he is.
Marcus’ cock teases my clit just long enough, he squeezes my tits just hard enough and then he plunges. Our eyes are locked in disbelief. The primitive life of our approaching orgasm captures us. There is no stopping, no sanity, no reality except …
“I’m coming.”
My voice is as quiet as my orgasm is deep, as he keeps plunging, keeps me feeling more passion than I’ve ever felt before.
We haven’t used protection. He withdraws quickly and I lift my tits from their lacy cage to accept what he spews onto them, again and again and again. My hand has returned to my pussy and I stroke, while he massages his juice over my breasts, especially my nipples. And I come again.
The evening is lazy after that. I suck his cock and he nibbles my pussy. We shower together and he brushes my hair. We share our life stories over pizza and red wine and I tell him about Theodore. He vows to protect me, whether I stay or sue for divorce – he is a lawyer, after all.
He makes copies of Theodore’s many adventures, in case he needs them for court and, during that exercise discovers that Theodore’s camera is set up to be motion sensitive. Our adventure, clear as a bell, has been captured on the computer. He makes copies of that for our enjoyment.
Theodore calls. He won’t be home until Monday. Marcus leaves just after midnight, but he’ll be back tomorrow.
I watch us again, before retiring for the night. We look good together. Marcus has left it up to me, whether to erase the file or leave it in play, surprise Theodore with this latest addition to his collection. I haven’t yet decided, but I’m sure looking forward to tomorrow.
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