Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32


Dear readers, this story follows on from Sunshine. It will stand alone but is most likely better enjoyed after reading that submission first.

I’ve blamed it on the moonlight.

Wrapping a towel around me for warmth, I stumble sleepy around the chalet seeking some sign of Sarah. She has tidied the kitchen, folded towels, picked up empty glasses and bottles and there is no sign she was ever here except a faint lingering smell of our love-making on the bed I return to. Pulling back the covers I nestle into the warm spot our bodies had shared and smile myself into deep much needed sleep.

I wake much later to a loud beep from my mobile phone. My eyes are grainy and my body reminds me that all-nighters take a little longer to recover from these days. I have the faint remnants of a hang-over but nothing some ibuprofen and a swig of whiskey won’t fix. My pussy though, feels soundly and enthusiastically used and that feeling alone mocks me by arousing me with thoughts of how that transpired.

Growing quite wet with recollection I pick up the phone to find a number of messages, two from George and one from “Piss Bitch”. I remember giving her my phone to put her contacts in; I’m tech savvy but this latest phone defies my attempts with its windows operating system.

Opening Sarah’s message first I find a picture of myself kneeling in the tub while she spreads her legs and pisses on me. Her hairless vulva and thighs frame the top of my hair and my face is hidden.

[Thank you, Connie, for a wonderful night. Pls forgive me leaving early. I have much to think on. C u soon I hope xxx ps I thought Mr Winter would like this pic.]

Smiling, I thumb through Georges messages. One is his standard nightly message when he is away, [Night beautiful] and the other is a picture of a pair of lacey underpants sprayed with ropes of cum.

“Oh, I see your grotty underwear and raise you…” I forward Sarah’s picture, “[piss off old man].

Double glass doors slide open to the deck and I drag my old friend Tullamore onto the deck to gaze at the afternoon? My phone tells me I have slept until almost two pm. I had planned on souvenir shopping today for the kids and George. I could also use some toiletries and something to eat. If I’m to beat the mall hours I’ll need to get a scurry on.

It’s so hard to ‘scurry’ on island time though. I’ve showered and dressed and snacked and sat to read the first few chapters of my second novel. Adultery has never really been my flavour. Why not just be honest and play by the same rules? But, in this tawdry tale, ‘Beau’ an unreasonably gifted in all proportions young man gardens at a rich woman’s mansion. His unnatural handsomeness leads the wife of the political ascendant to investigate his unnatural girth and length and thereafter, many mucky moments ensue. I fold the book as my phone indicates three pm, not bothering to mark the page and decide to pursue my own unnatural endeavours.

The walk from the chalet to the mall is one of my favourite things about this island. Not ‘the’ favourite thing but one of them. The boardwalk at the end of the chalet gives way to a sandy path that winds its way across the dunes and under palms and banksia forest through ti-trees and depending on which chalet you have booked past a natural feature of the island. My own track leads past a fresh water lake where my children were both conceived.

Our anniversary is the thirteenth of December each year and our brilliant computer analyst son and exceptionally talented producer daughter have still to conclude why they share September birthdays. This lake is why. Its soft shelly beach and mossy banks, the moonbeams which glow silver through the canopy onto the soft grassy shores each evening and the fact that we often wandered back this way after long lovely nights at the resort’s entertainment venues; too impatient for the seclusion of our chalet and making the most of our private walkway is exactly why.

We make it a tradition to get at least one or two shots away each ‘island’a’versary’ at this very location and it begs me reminisce as I wander freshly showered and dressed in my island formal best; a dark black bikini under a yellow tie died, gauzy knee length cotton dress. Our yearly trysts are a salute of some kind to our younger days. I wish briefly George was here. Snapping a picture to send him I remember a time he and two young Jamaican men took turns on me just ten feet from where I stand.

[Remember?] I send him. I don’t know what time it is in Japan so I am surprised when my phone beeps.

[Very fondly. Wish I was there.]

[Me too]

[Do you remember Jacques and Saul last year?]

[I was, just not their names. Love you bastard.]

[Love you bitch.]

And along the track I traipse. It smells deeply of the sand and undergrowth; a scent that is linked in the synapses of my brain to all sorts of memories which flood back in fleeting fairy-borne glimpses. Lost in reminiscence, marmaris escort I find boards beneath my feet again and approach the central hub of the resort sooner than I expected.

In the small pharmacy come newsagent come post office, I find sunscreen, handle some small souvenirs and browse the long aisle of magazines for something simply distracting to pass some sunny hours on the deck of my chalet. I can hear the hub-bub of voices mingled with piano music from the garden bar across the way. The island breeze brings it in lilting wafts that also carry the smell of cooking from the restaurant beside it.

Suddenly hungry, I make my purchases and pop them in my bag. Outside I beeline to the restaurant, “Frangipani’s”, and spend far too long wading through the simple menu. The truth is I have all the food I need in my chalet but it’s nice to have someone cook for you now and then as well so eventually I order a seafood basket and ask to have it delivered to me in the garden bar outside.

Wooden barrels make tables and people lean against them chatting, some sit and listen quietly to the piano music. Ordinarily a guitarist entertains. The upright Steinway is a welcome diversion and the pianist quite masterful. He plays through ‘Fur Elise’ with nimble long fingers and strict adherence to timing then letting the last notes fade in the drawing room pitch belly of the piano he takes a sip from a drink that sits where a music score could and continues into Bach’s Minuet in G, which just happens to be one of my absolute favourite classical pieces.

He draws no applause from the twenty-somethings that huddle in quiet gaudy groups of questionable fashion sense. Hardly even a glance gets thrown his way, excepting mine which watches those long, tanned fingers in mesmerised appreciation of this auditory feast. Another feast slides before me and I smile in thanks at the waitress. Picking at the calamari rings, I dip them in a tartare sauce and test them with my teeth; they are perfect and my eyes rise finally from the pianist’s fingers to follow his arms higher till I see him for the first time.

Older men usually do not interest me for some feeble reason. Perhaps I compare them all to George and find them lacking in some way. I usually predate the younger men. I suppose that is a reflection on me. Maybe I feel superior to the younger men and see them as easier prey? This man however excites me. He is tall, easily as tall as George. There I go, comparing… But he is tall in a lean and dangerous way as opposed to Georges heavy set gym-fit build. His eyes are dark in his brooding taciturn face. Curls of jet dark hair take undirected licence to fall where they may around his strong clean jawline and neck.

His simple white business shirt is opened to the second button and the sleeves rolled high on his forearms. I can see the green lines of an old tattoo peek from below the cuffs and matted tufts of thick black hair tangle in the v of his open shirt. An intensity and power gather in an aura around him as he nods rhythmically and concentrates, lost deep in his own construction. And soon this too ends, the piano relaxing into silence that hangs like his fingers above the keys until deep enough, he rests his palms on his thighs and hangs his head into the quiet.

Applause seems like a hollow gesture to offer such a moving performance, but my hands make tiny clapping noises, alone in the garden bar with the chatter of oblivious young adults who would most likely have preferred the guitarist and the canned karaoke cover songs. The face I’d misnamed taciturn raises and flicks aside its dark curly fringe to twist into a faint, kind smile and I recognise deep grief etched into the playful laugh lines that show themselves in this momentary expression. Empathy, my constant curse, coils ready to launch me in wasted expansive gestures of humanity and I smile warmly in return.

Hollow echoes follow the lid of the piano closed and he stands and finds a seat at the bar. Moments later a waitress arrives with a whiskey sour and a folded note. “With thanks for the applause.”

“Mr Reynolds wishes to know if you would mind company?” the little blonde girl asks with the naughty twinkle of a matchmaker in her hazel eyes.

“Tell Mr Reynolds…” I falter. The problem with interpreters is meaning is lost. It’s a trap into which one can fall, the initial awkward becomes the norm and sets the entire tone for later conversation. “No don’t. I’ll tell him myself.”

So boldly striding between the tables dotted on the pavers I bee-line for the pianist where he sits in broody silence at the very end of the bar as if he is trying to shrink into the very structure of it. Hair hangs low around his face and I cannot read his expression as I take a stool beside him.

“Thank you for the drink Mr Reynolds…”

Disturbed from his reveries, he raises his chin and pushes unruly ringlets behind his ear. His eyes find mine and his face breaks into a smile that marmaris escort bayan reaches his deep blue eyes as if my face were the most welcome thing in his world; like I am the one thing that could make him smile. It’s pants-wettingly disarming.

“Grant. Please call me Grant. And you’re welcome. Thank you for the applause, appreciation is in short supply among the current generation. Music is so widely available I guess, they don’t value the performance. In any case, I am a little clumsy on the keys but I do enjoy playing. I’m waffling…”

“Waffle on Grant…” And I mean it. His voice is a Leonard Cohen baritone and reverberates in my chest as he speaks. “You are anything but clumsy. Your timing in Fur Elise was masterful and the deep chords in Bach’s Minuet were perfectly formed. You are too humble in your self-deprecation.”

A blush deepens the colour of his cheek bones and he clears his throat, swallowing the compliment. “I ah… thank you.”

“Connie. Connie Winter”

“Thank you, Connie. Will Mr Winter be joining you?” he nods to my wedding band.

“Oh no, George is busy this evening.”

“Ah… he is a brave man then, leaving a beautiful woman alone in a world full of wolves.”

I laugh a little at the metaphor, George would most likely disagree and insist that I perhaps was the predator and the wolves should be wary. “Where did you study music?”

“Ah, high functioning kind of Asperger’s I’m afraid. I play by ear. Can’t read music at all; like little ants walking around on the paper.”

“Wow. I’ve some letters in theory and about fourth grade practical and can’t play like you.” I sip my drink. The conversation seems to have found its first awkward pause. Smart people use this moment as a chance to bid their thanks and retire politely. I never was very smart.

“Well Connie…” He finishes his own drink and pushes the empty glass across the bar, “Thank you for your pretty words and for your equally pretty smile. I have some ah… duties to attend to elsewhere if you will forgive me?”

“Certainly, thank you for the drink Grant.” He rises and stoops a little with the characteristic self-awareness of the very tall.

“Unless…” he stops and turns back to me, “Unless… never mind.”

“Grant,” I urge, “You are being enigmatic. That is ungentlemanly.”

He grimaces. His brow furrows in concentration. “I am enjoying your company. It’s probably not very gentlemanly to propose, but you could accompany if you wish. My duties are simple and public so your husband need not worry for your virtue. I will not seek to take advantage.”

“I would enjoy that very much.” I’m not speaking of accompanying him but rather of him taking advantage. In any case he seems positively enthused by my reply and offers me his elbow. He’s such an odd ungainly mix of formality and physical presence that I am aroused more intellectually than sexually. We leave through a wooden gate at the side of the bar. Looking up at his no longer frowning face I see a lilting grin has captured his countenance.

“Connie, do you know who I am?”

“Grant Reynolds, pianist extraordinaire and kidnapper of house wives?”

I’ve squeezed a laugh from his earlier wooden face. “Grant Reynolds, owner of Reynolds Reef Resort.”

“Ok… I can be a little slow off the mark sometimes but I guess I should have put that together a little more quickly.”

“It’s actually nice that you didn’t. There are those who try to take advantage of my situation.”

“I can imagine.”

“Anyhow, I need to make an appearance in the night-club and I have a couple of visitors that I am supposed to entertain. The night-club is not my favourite place but the turn-over off-sets some of our other costs. It’s loud but I have an office upstairs. Carol used to run the club for me but…”


“We divorced.”


“I’m not.”

“It was messy then?”

“No, very tidy. She was very good with paperwork, had settlement and divorce papers drawn up and it was just over. I’m thankful actually, she had me quite at an advantage, we had no pre-nups, but all she wanted was the house on the mainland and college tuition for Louise our daughter.”

“Sounds very organised.”

“Yes, she had a lot of time to get organised. She had been seeing Richard for almost a year by then.”

“Oh… and you had to catch up in a hurry I guess.”

“Well, yes. I suspected an affair but I was still quite in love with her.”

Watching his face, I don’t believe he could ever play a decent hand of poker. Every thought and emotion is written clearly there for all to see. We continue silently along the boardwalks toward the western side of the island, where at the nine o’clock position on the clock face arrangement of chalets a three-story structure stands. This is the singles and party section of the island. The lower two floors of the building contain motel rooms and a café. The uppermost floor is the penthouse and a special subterranean escort marmaris level holds “Neptunes” night-club. George and I had been there a couple of times to ‘hunt’.

Our footsteps are the only noise. Moonlight spills through the canopy and paints the path dappled silver; a mercurial ribbon tempting us to follow.

“I’m sorry, don’t know why I brought that up.”

“Ha, people have a habit of spilling their guts to me Grant. I must have one of those faces.”

“You have a pretty face, Connie. I get quite self-absorbed from time to time, forget there are other people in the conversation. Forgive me please.”

“I forgive you for your humanity, tell me what she was like.”

“Awkwardly similar in appearance to yourself is the truth. A little taller perhaps and she wore her hair quite short. For a moment in the garden bar I thought you were her.”


“Yes… bit creepy but when you spoke, in just the little time we have spoken, you have a vastly different nature to her. She was very literal, very present, very matter of fact and lacked any real compassion for others. It made her a wonderful business asset but not the easiest person to share life with. It wasn’t until after she left with Richard that I found out how wildly promiscuous she was. The staff… kept a lot of secrets they never should have had to.”

“Oh dear. So, she never shared that side of her with you. How did you feel when you found out?”

“Shocked I guess at first. Perhaps annoyed and jealous but mostly just a self-righteous kind of anger.”

“Do you still feel like that?”

“No, it’s dulled with time.”

“Sounds like how I felt initially when George admitted his affair.”

“Your husband? You are still together though.”

I told him as we walked, about Georges fling and the counselling and how our present ‘arrangement’ had evolved.

“See in that moment my world crashed a little. At least it tilted off its axis and left me clinging vertiginously to morals and conventions that offered no support. You know the thing about adultery is that you are either the wife or the mistress or the man; the husband, the lover or the wife. It’s defined by social roles and styles of interaction and your response to it usually follows a clearly predetermined path. The wife resents the ‘whore’ her husband has sought sexual solace in. The mistress resents the wife’s hold on the husband. The husband has it all and likes the way it is. A wife forced into an archetype of mother. A mistress in a role of lover/seductress. It’s neatly compartmentalised for him. He receives nurturing, creation, family from one and steamy sex and need from the other. It suits the way he thinks. Or so the psycho-babble presents it.”

“That’s how I felt. I resented Richard even though we had been friends before Carol came along. Richard resented me because I got the intimacy. I hated him cause he got the sex. Carol had it just how she wanted it.”

“Ultimately it’s not even about the sex. The who put which body part where of it all that I agonised daily over and questioned him, “Did you come? Did you wear a condom? Did she come?”, really matters little opposed to the wounded trust, the broken faith, the lost innocence.”

“Indeed. I was gutted. Took me a long time to even trust staff that I had known for years.”

“I struggled to internalise and work through the grief of it but I was making progress. The silly bitch psych told me all about different scripts we follow in life, some our own, some social constructs, some traditional female archetypes. You know, the crone, the mother, the lover/seductress…”

“Jung… The father, the teacher, the lover, the warrior…”

“See, despite the hurt, there was a burning in me that told me my own ‘lover/seductress’ still needed attention but that same burning matched the still burning pain of my heart and I realised, I still wanted him despite his callous betrayal. I realised that this act is the currency that betrayers trade in. That they pitch two people against one another and let them each try to lure them back to their own dens with money, sex and nurturing and any power they can muster to throw against the ‘enemy’ they have been presented with – each other. When in actual fact the enemy, is the betrayal.”

“I would have given her anything, done anything but she had made up her mind.”

“Tell me this, why is the female paradigm, “the lover/the seductress” presented in two parts if men were not writing and describing their wives and mistresses. Is not the male counterpart simply named “the lover”? Why is the currency of a woman’s lust dependant on where she spends it, yet the male’s is simply glorified as a complete entity?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Well why is it that you blame Carol for her promiscuity and not Richard?”

“She was… If she hadn’t offered… A man well…”

“I always felt angry that George did not see the lover in me. That he saw it first in someone else. Perhaps that’s why it was easy for him at the time. I had become so entrenched in the role of mother to our children and to him that I had neglected it. Perhaps you had neglected that part of your own needs Grant. “

Ben Esra telefonda seni boaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

  • tags

Related Posts

Got Something To Say:

E-posta hesabınız yayımlanmayacak. Gerekli alanlar * ile işaretlenmişlerdir