in front of him, those red talon nails doing what they ought to do, tracing a lascivious path up and down, from his neck to his stomach to the top of his trousers, up his torso again, up his neck, over his chin to his lips. He sucks her finger into his mouth while she deftly unbuckles his belt, unzips him and slips her hand down his trousers, fast and urgently, locating his cock now bulging awkwardly in his boxers.
She squats, pulling his trousers down as she goes. She’s licking his knee – a first for him and more ticklish than erotic. She doesn’t stay there long, using her mouth and her breath over the surface of his thighs until she’s level with his groin. She pulls down his boxers and his cock springs out as if it had been gasping for air. No preamble, he’s in her mouth, all the way and at this point he is neither Pete nor Oliver, he is simply a forty-six-year-old widower who needs to fuck and doesn’t want any emotion in the way. He just needs to get rid of this basic carnal desire which goads and tortures him, he needs to empty his balls and feel the velvet comfort of a real cunt.
‘Pull my hair.’ She’s standing now, one hand around his cock, the other between her legs. ‘Be rough with me.’
He pushes her onto the bed, fumbles with a condom. Missionary would have been fine for him but she’s up on all fours with her arse bucking at him. Eyes tight shut, he rams into her from behind while she spews out a quite shocking litany of filth. He blocks it out. He might be fulfilling her fantasy – she’s probably snuck here away from some sexless marriage and her husband is probably farting in front of the footie none the wiser – but she isn’t the stuff of any fantasy of Oliver’s. All he wants from her is the consensual go-ahead to shag. Let her holler that he is to take her like the dog-bitch slut she is – he doesn’t listen. It is about his cock, his balls and a fortnight’s cache of spunk.
She’s on her back now with her great tits just begging to be fondled and sucked. She’s looped her arms under her thighs, spreading her legs wide. It’s a great view – it’s all on show, it’s just what he needs to see. He stares and stares, gorging on the sight before plunging right in. She’s bellowing. Five thrusts. Then three. Two. One.
‘Fuck,’ he says, repeating it again and again as he comes. His body feels as though it’s peeled inside out, he feels sucked into the depths of her, he can feel those talons fixed into his buttocks. She’s still writhing and humping and she’s roaring at him to make her come again. But he doesn’t want to, he just wants to go. She’s not letting him. She’s bucking and twisting and screwing herself onto his spent cock and now, thank God, she’s making coming noises. His face is buried in the pillow, turned away from her and he wants her to let go of his ear with her teeth.
‘God, that was good,’ she’s purring, dragging her nails up and down his back, through his hair. ‘I needed that.’
But Oliver can’t reply because actually, he could weep. He could sob and howl. It’s always the same these days – as soon as his balls are empty he is subsumed with an all-encompassing hollowness, a dreadful terrifying emptiness that sex without love causes. It’s a hateful situation – to need to fuck so badly, to need human touch though he knows now the utter wretchedness its aftermath brings.
But Oliver is a good man, a lovely man. He has manners and innate kindness and a sense of decorum. So he won’t run to the bathroom, change and get the hell out of there as soon as he can. He could, but he won’t. He gives himself a moment, a long moment, then he slides out of her, lies on his back, lets her lie on his chest, lets her run her hands in that post-coital languor over his torso. But he can’t feel it. His spent body is numb now, there’s nothing left inside or outside. And he can hear her talking but he’s not really listening.
‘My husband had an accident at work. We don’t have sex. He has depression – impotence. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a lovely man. But I need sex, you know? I’m almost fifty. I love my husband – don’t get me wrong. But I don’t want to leave him and I don’t want to find myself drawn to having an affair. So that’s why I do the websites – because they’re discreet, aren’t they? People like me – like you – good people who have needs. It’s saved my marriage. Do you know that? It’s saved it.’ She pauses for breath. Oliver hopes she’ll start up again with, Well, anyway, I’d better go now. Thanks a lot and good luck!
But no.
‘So Pete – tell me. Shall we meet again? I work part-time. I could be here Wednesday.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Home? Wife?’
‘Something like that,’ he says.
‘You told me your wife isn’t around?’
‘That’s right.’
‘You just don’t want another relationship?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Well, nor do I. That suits me. I could do this time next week, then, if you can’t do Wednesday.’
‘I’ll check – and I’ll email you.’ He smiles at her. ‘I’ll email you if I can do this time next week.’
And he hates it that her eyes light up. She no longer looks or sounds like the horny vixen who’d screwed him senseless minutes ago. She looks, now, on the plain side of normal but her eyes don’t sparkle, they have a dullness, a sadness. Everything about her expression points to too much hope at the thought of being able to escape home again this time next week. Her make-up has smudged. Oliver wonders if at some point during sex, she’d wept silently too.
She’d paid for the room in advance. She won’t take any contribution from him.
‘You can pay next time – if you might be able to do this time next week,’ she says. ‘Email me, won’t you – either way.’
‘Of course.’
And he will. That was the beauty of these websites; that’s the etiquette – no embarrassment emailing to say, Actually, it was bloody great but I’m not into seeing the same person more than once. He could be as honest as that. It didn’t matter. There were plenty of other willing one-off bunk-ups online. A whole society. It wasn’t about relationships for any of them. For Louise it wasn’t about this Pete man at all – it was purely about being able to have good sex, fantasy sex, sex full stop, without cruising some dreadful bar on a Friday night and bullshitting her way through a loud evening of overpriced drinks and inane chatting-up in the hope that she might pull at the end. She’d never do that – what, with her husband at home? What kind of a Friday night would that be for him? She wouldn’t do that. Ever. But she could tell him she was off shopping on a Saturday afternoon, have someone clean, sober and like-minded fuck her brains out and restore her to the good wife she still really wanted to be.
Oliver Bourne. Forty-six. Lost his beautiful wife not quite three years ago in a tragic road accident. She was forty-three. No age. They’d been together since they were both twenty-one. And he’d loved her and she’d loved him. He’d been faithful to her and it had been easy. And now she was gone and he was mortal and every now and then his physical needs were overwhelming. And websites like the one which had brought him into contact with Louise today were the way forward for him to survive as a man on earth who had a wife once, but no more, and never wanted a relationship again. Louise and an alarming number of others just like her, able to replace something missing in their lives. For Oliver though, something was missing which he believed could never be replaced. Because it hadn’t been lost, it had gone. DeeDee had gone and life would go on; it just wouldn’t be the same and it could never, ever, be as good as it had been.
