Chapter 11: The "M" word

I was now late for work, of course. Immediately I arrived I hurried to the gents for the wank of which my conversation with Alicia had left me sorely in need. As I made my way to my office a colleague mentioned that Fran had been looking for me. "Connie, too," someone added.

I got to my desk and switched on the computer. Of course there was a vast stack of emails. I opened first the one from Brian about the board report. In it he congratulated Fran and me on a job thoroughly well done, so that was one thing off my mind. I continued to check emails in the knowledge that someone would be knocking on my door any moment. I wondered who would win the race.

It was Connie. Shutting the door behind her, she hurried into my arms as I stood up to greet her and we enjoyed a long and passionate kiss. Despite her evident pleasure at seeing me, she seemed slightly nervous and edgy so I asked whether something was troubling her. Had the college reported her to the company for her disappearing act on Friday?

"Oh, they don't care," she replied dismissively, "so long as they get their money. Anyway it was my last week. No, James, it's much worse than that. You'll be so upset." She had to pause before she could continue. "It's Tommy," she said.

"What's happened? Has he been bad to you?" I was surprised how protective I suddenly felt.

"No, no, nothing like that," she replied, looking down as if in shame. "Oh, James, I don't know if I can tell you."

I was already late in and I had a feeling this would be a busy day, so I wanted none of this beating about the bush. I remembered my theory that a direct order never fails and said she must tell me, whatever it was.

She complied at once, speaking in a low but clear voice. "When I left you Friday I went home like you told me. I went to bed early saying I had a headache because I wanted to be alone to think of you. I played with myself in bed and imagined I was with you, and when I came it was fantastic. Tommy must have heard me because he appeared at the door in just his shirt and he had a big hard-on. He smiled at me. 'You've found a cure for your headache, then?' he said and got in the bed with me.

"Oh, James, I didn't know what to do. I didn't want him but I'd never refused him before and he kissed me and got on top of me and —" She dropped her eyes again and took a deep breath before continuing. "I couldn't stop thinking of you but that made me feel horny and then he was inside of me and I felt myself responding and —" She broke off and looked at me pleadingly. "Oh, James, the sex was amazing! Not so good as with you," she hastened to add, "not nearly so good, but far better than I'd ever had with Tommy or any guy I'd had before. But James, you must believe me, it was Tommy in bed with me but in my mind it was you I was fucking, it was you!"

I motioned her to keep her voice down (these internal office walls are not the most soundproof). As she went on to tell me that subsequently she and Tommy had been very active (as Betty Rico would have put it) but she had always been thinking of me, I examined my own state of mind to analyse how I took this news. Was I jealous?

I decided that in all conscience I could answer no. I still wanted her, of course, and had office etiquette permitted it I would have spreadeagled her on the desk and taken her there and then. But the news that she had been with Tommy did not upset me; if I was not in a position to use her, I felt, I had no objection if she wanted to take her pleasure elsewhere. So I explained to her that it was all right, what she had done was only natural and I was not angry with her.

She looked relieved but not satisfied. "But James, it's you I want to fuck, not Tommy. The way you made me feel on Friday," she said with a strange smile that managed to be at once wistful and lascivious, "that's what I want. James, when can we fuck?"

I had been wondering about this myself. So far I had not come up with the answer. I thought of taking her to a nearby hotel at lunch or after work but it would not be ideal — some colleague might easily see us — and besides, always a thrifty man, I resented the amount I should have to pay for an hour or two's use of the room. I was also put off by the knowing looks I should get from hotel staff as this fat bald middle-aged man turned up with a sexy black girl half his age.

So I told Connie I was working on it and she would have to be patient. I also took the opportunity to give her a talking-to about getting to work punctually and pulling her weight in the office. Then I kissed her warmly and sent her on her way.

Scarcely was she out of my office before there was a knock and Fran marched in without waiting for permission. I knew FUCK had affected her but was unsure how much. I had thought she might be flustered and confused but not a bit of it. With an air of resolution about her, albeit tinged with nervousness, she took a chair and looked me straight in the eye. "James, we must talk."

"First of all," I said, "let me thank you for the report."

"Never mind about the report," she said brusquely. "I want to talk about us."

I looked over her shoulder to check she had firmly closed the door. Her forceful mood had me on the back foot. "Us?" I queried.

"Yes, us. James, I love you."

I looked at her but could not speak. She seemed nervous and embarrassed but also thoroughly determined. I got the impression she had rehearsed and rehearsed what she was going to say when she saw me and she was going through with it no matter what. I also realised that she was the first FUCK victim (apart from Wendy, of course) to use the "L" word. And then she put the cap on it with the "M" word.

"James, darling, I love you and I want to marry you." Having got this off her chest she let out a relieved breath and looked more relaxed. Her eyes sparkled as she looked at me and waited patiently for a reply.

Appalled and completely at a loss for words, I could think of nothing but the same trick I had pulled on Alicia. I raised my left hand and displayed the wedding band. It did not work so well this time.

"Yes, yes, I know," she said impatiently. "I've thought about that a lot. But what can I do?"

As I gathered my thoughts I remembered that Fran had met Wendy: twice in fact, once at the company's Christmas dinner ("Partners welcome") and once when Wendy had to come up to town for some appointment and looked in at the office. Both times they had chatted in the most amicable way and after the second meeting Wendy had talked to me about possibly inviting her for dinner. "But Fran, think," I said. "You know Wendy. She's a lovely person. Just think about the implications for her — for all of us — of what you're saying."

"I have thought about it," she insisted, "and it's a rotten situation. It's so unfair. I've got nothing against Wendy — I like her a lot — but it's her or me."

I needed to stop this before it went any further. "Then it's her," I said firmly.

I expected anger or tears, but instead her mood seemed to soften. "Puir darling James," she said feelingly, her Scottish accent asserting itself, "I knew you'd say that. You're such a guid and lovely man and Wendy's your wife. It's only right and proper that you'd stand by her. And I know this must be terribly sudden for you, darling, but," she went on, the note of determination returning to her voice, "I've had days and days to think about it and I know that you're the loveliest and finest man in the worrld and there can never ever be anyone else for me. I want to be your wife."

"Fran," I replied despairingly, "you know I've been married to Wendy for twenty years."

"Exactly," she replied. "So now it's my turrn." (Even in my worry and confusion I found a moment to wonder how on earrth Scots manage to rroll their "R"s like that.)

I tried appealing to her sense of right and wrong. "Fran, you've always been such a good and decent person. I can't believe you're threatening to break up a happy marriage."

She did have the shame to look a little guilty. "Oh, I know everyone will say I'm the scarlet woman," she admitted, holding up a handful of that glorious red hair and smiling sadly at her own rueful joke, "and they'll all be sorry for Wendy. And they'll be right. She doesn't deserve it; it's not her fault. But I didn't mean to fall in love; I always liked you and respected you but I never saw it coming and I don't see what I could have done about it. So you can't say it's my fault either. It's no one's fault, except," and her earnestness relaxed for a moment into a dazzling smile, "maybe yours for being so attractive, darling. It's just bad luck on everyone, but there it is."

"Fran, please don't call me 'darling'. You must know I like you too," I assured her (and under the desk my swelling cock was telling me that it shared the sentiment), "and I'm deeply flattered, really I am, but this is wrong. You can't make me leave my wife."

"Oh, I know I can't," she said unexpectedly. "It's up to you. You're loyal to Wendy because you're such a wonderful man, it's why I love you. But James, darling," she continued, defiantly using the forbidden endearment and looking me straight in the eye in dead earnest, "I can make you happier than Wendy can and I'm telling you now, I'm going to do everything I can to make you mine. That's my decision. What you do about it, stay with her or come with me, that's yuir decision."