Chapter 4

(Irene)

There is a good chance the child is Eric's. A very good chance. So there is no reason to tell him. No need to hurt him, I tell myself for the thousandth time. And I feel the familiar rush of shame.

Goddammit, girl, I say. At least be honest with yourself. What you really mean is: there is no need to risk his love. No need to lose his comfortable embrace, your comfortable life.

And most of all, there is no need to bring up your child alone.

Go on, Irene, delude yourself. What you really mean is: no need to hurt yourself. You are a selfish, immature slut.

The rims of my eyes burn. Tears are never far away, lately. Hormones, no doubt. There are so many convenient reasons to choose from, these days. You don't even have to pick the real ones.

I sit at my desk, watching the screen of my pc. I could have watched the doorknob. Or even have looked out of my proudest possession: my office window.

Having no windows is for the lowly product managers. Two windows are for the VP's. I have one window. I am on the way up.

Look out, you all; here comes Irene, the pregnant slut in residence.

I remember August. The torrid city. Long Island's lovely breeze. I remember Phil and Mary's house. The terrace, the pool. A little borrowed paradise.

I love to remember lying topless under Eric's adoring eyes. Just lying there and checking out his eager gaze from behind my fashionable shades.

What I'd also love to remember is how taut my body felt as I stretched out for him. How I displayed my sweetly tanned titties, the lush valley of my thighs, the golden shine of my freshly oiled skin. It ought to feel deliciously naughty, remembering that. All so securely contained within our perfect little marriage.

But of course all that is what I now prefer to remember. What I really remember is the shameful fuck I'd had that same morning. And not from Eric.

I lay stretched before him like a naked cat in heat. But what I really felt was the soreness of my well-fucked body. And the panic that I tried to bury inside, not to be found out, ever.

Thank you, Eric, was what I thought. Thank you for the beautiful shades you bought me. They perfectly hide my shame.

Phil Mortensen married my best friend, Mary Eckstein. That would be about seven years ago. I had been her bridesmaid. I was by then already with Dean, my future husband. We married one year later.

Phil is rich. We use to make fun of it, calling him Philthy Rich. He does not like that. Phil can be amazingly insecure for a guy as witty and naturally suave as he is.

I love Mary very much. We are like sisters. I like Phil too, but I also find him a self-centered ass at times. I can't ever say that. It would hurt Mary. And it might make her think I am a jealous bitch. Which I am not, I think.

Back then, as now, Phil was very attentive and charming. He always flirted with me. I didn't mind that as long as Mary didn't mind. I knew he tried it with every woman only halfway good-looking. I liked to tell him he was a Phlirt and yes, about that he could laugh.

Dean was another story. He had a jealous streak and didn't like Phil's attentions at all. Or any other man's for that matter. I tried to explain that it was all perfectly harmless, but I don't think I ever convinced him.

Who knows, he may have been right all along.

Funny thing is that for all his jealousy Dean was already cheating on me before the second year of our marriage was over. It was a rather sleazy and embarrassing affair, as he did it so very openly and unashamedly.

He had hired this peroxide, fake-titted temp secretary. Secretary, well, what's in a word? Big hair and outfits tiny enough to take her an extra hour each morning to get into. At that year's company Christmas party he danced with her as if they planned to fuck each other right there on the dance floor.

I did not exactly feel welcome at that party. He hardly talked to me all evening, leaving me at the mercy of colleagues I hardly knew. Dean even had tried to dissuade me to come to the party at all. Which might have been better indeed.

I left early, alone. He did not come home until next afternoon, mostly to tell me he wanted a divorce. By then I could not agree more.

(At the signing of the divorce papers he had the gall to bring Miss Peroxide. Funny thing is, we got to talk and I liked her. I also felt quite embarrassed about how I had misjudged her. She was only working as a temp secretary to pay for her PhD at the university. She had a special scholarship because she was brilliant. She never said that, I found out later. Her screaming outfits and make up were just an echo of her trailer upbringing.

Ah, and yes, her tits were real.

To my great satisfaction she left Dean two years later. She had not even taken the trouble to marry him. We often see each other. She will soon have her title, "Doctor".)

So I was single again. And it wasn't wasted on Phlirty Phil. What had been an innocent game started to get almost annoying. Phil made blatant advances even when his wife was present. It was after a dinner for Mary's birthday that I started to avoid them as much as I could decently get away with. At that dinner he had let his hand slip under my skirt as we were chitchatting in front of Mary.

Of course Mary wanted to know what was wrong, but I could not very well tell her. I just tried to compensate by going out with her alone.

Then came those crazy, sweet, wonderful icy days in Chicago. I realized that I had never really been in love before. Not as deeply as I was with Eric. It seemed as if that blizzard blew away all the dust that had settled on my heart. All the ugly layers of distrust and cynicism were gone. I was sixteen again. I was an unwritten story. A wide-open invitation.

My memories of those days gained a golden hue. I never felt this complete, this free. I grew on his love; I soared with him and never looked back.

Then I threw it away in a few sleazy hours.

I remember sleeping in the sun, that morning in August. It wasn't real sleep. It was this glorious fading in and out of consciousness. I floated from sheer oblivion into the hot, hazy borderland of sun-toasted daylight. In and out I floated until I didn't even know where I was. Or if I existed at all.

The evening before had been spent on talking into the night. We slipped into the pool, we lounged on the terrace. The evening had very reluctantly given in to darkness. It never lost its balmy sweetness. I sipped chilled white wine, so did Mary. Phil had turned in already, preparing for an early rise.

Mary and I never seemed to want the evening to end. We even sat in silence, which is quite an achievement for us. Then Mary groaned and damned her job. It insisted she return to the stifling city next morning.

Next day would be a Friday. I had juggled expertly to turn it into a day off. It would extend my weekend into a mini-holiday. It would save me from returning to the armpit soaking, shirt sticking hell that Manhattan is in August.

I would sleep when Phil and Mary had to leave. Then I would take the slowest of breakfasts and lie in the sun to add to my already amazing tan. I would read my book and wait for my lover to be freed at last from his slaving obligations.

And so I did.

I remember dreaming.

Yes, I must have been dreaming most of the time. One day I shall get to the point where I tell myself it was all a dream. I dreamt straight through it all. It never really happened.

Trust me, I am very good at deluding myself.

I remember dreaming that the sun came down from the skies to lick my skin. It licked my exposed nipples, making them reach out, begging for more.

Then the sun's fiery tongue licked down the centre of my chest and belly. It found the sweet dimple and I dreamt how I arched my body.

Maybe I even dreamt how I moaned.

The hot sun's mouth closed over my cunt. Its heat radiated right through the flimsy material of my bikini thong. I loved the sun. I welcomed its rays. I spread for its piercing presence.

I shivered.

Eric and I make love all the time. Sometimes we even have sex when we do. Or should I say: we made love? I am sure he still does, but do I?

There was a time, not long ago, when the mere touch of his hand on my cheek gave me goose bumps. His soft breath on my nipple made me wet my panties. Just a stolen kiss could scatter my thoughts like a kaleidoscope.

Sometimes an awful thought invades my mind. It is evil, so evil that at first I adamantly refused it entrance. But it kept coming back. It kept knocking until I gave up and let it in.

This awful thought is about Eric's kisses, his touches, his mere presence. They have taken my senses to a whole new level. Chicago turned me from a nice and healthy vanilla girl into a very sensuous creature. There are times when I feel as if each and every one of my billion pores possesses a miniscule but highly aroused little clit.

I always thought it was because of Eric, this instant arousal, this constant excitement. And I was certain that it would always only be for him. The motor of my new passion must surely have been my love for him and his for me. And the fuel of course were his touches, his kisses, his words... his presence.

Now, on my feverish search for explanations (read: excuses), I suspect the unthinkable. Is it possible that Eric prepared me for what happened? Oh my God, no! Not like that. He never meant to. Don't ever think I blame him. But...

But would that slow, mischievous sun of my dreams have seduced me if I had still been that girl from before I met Eric? Would sweet healthy Irene even have dared dream what she dreamt while the horrendously sweet fingers touched her slit?

My mind knew there was only Eric. My heart and soul also knew, but did they tell my body?

I remember how I spread for the probing sun.

I remember the deep hot glow that flushed the insides of my thighs. Such a vivid dream, it made my juices flow.

I kept my eyes shut tightly, like a child. What I don't see doesn't exist, does it? What I dream is beyond my will. I never allowed it. I wasn't there.

The sun had Phil's voice.

It used sweet seductive words at first. Then it whispered words that shocked me with embarrassment. Degrading words, humiliating expressions. But they were only shocking because they aroused me. They were degrading because I loved to hear them. In my dreams of course, in my innocent dreams.

They made my head spin and my mouth say:

"Aaaaaah, yessss..."

And my toes clawed into the towel I lay on.

There are sheets of rain billowing against my office window. They blur the gray city behind it and make the street below shine like a deep black mirror.