Chapter 4: Don't worry about it

Of course, I knew nothing of this at the time. As I travelled home, I had plenty on my mind as I reflected on the day's events. Connie's ass-gymnastics had been spectacular; Fran's reaction was lower-key (as indeed Fran was a far less demonstrative person than Connie) but the rapt, doe-eyed, goofy gaze had been so utterly uncharacteristic of her, and so similar to the look that Connie had given me, that they must have had a common cause. And now I came to think of it, I had noticed Wendy giving me the same sort of look at home that morning but had assumed it was merely the afterglow of her spectacular orgasms.

Some men, I suppose, get this kind of attention from women all the time, but I was not one of them. Even as a younger man, when I carried far less weight and boasted a full head of hair, I had never been what you might call a babe magnet. There were points in my favour — I am well built, standing over six foot (height seems to count for a lot with women), and I benefit from a decent education, a functioning brain, and a certain wit that plays well in some quarters — so a few girlfriends duly came and went before the arrival in my life of Wendy. And it must be said that she fell like a ton of bricks the first time she met me — and she certainly had other admirers available if required, so I must have had something. But at no time in my life have I been able to get the hang of that maddeningly elusive quality known as charm (although Wendy has it to spare, when she can be bothered to deploy it), and over the years male-pattern baldness and too much indulgence in Wendy's cooking have combined to extinguish whatever sex appeal I may once have possessed.

It was in this context that the reaction of three very different women stood out so strikingly. Until the last day or two, no woman had looked at me that way since Wendy stopped doing it about ten or twelve years ago. The sudden rekindling of her wifely affection might conceivably be explained away, but the response of Fran and Connie had to be something to do with FUCK.

But what exactly was it doing? Its effects on my libido and my capacity for sex were obvious enough — the newspaper on my lap concealed from my fellow passengers yet another growing stiffy — but I struggled to understand the effect it had on other people.

"Proximity," I thought. "It's got to be something to do with close physical proximity for a reasonable length of time." But there had to be more to it than that. I had also spent some time closeted with Brian (my boss: nothing much in the way of intelligence or drive, but a consummate office politician, hence his rapid rise) and Linda (the Personnel Officer: with the company since the dawn of time and due to retire shortly; tall, skinny, and efficient), but they had not behaved in any unusual way. Moreover, I was wedged on the train between a scruffy teenage boy and a hatchet-faced middle-aged woman, neither of whom gave any sign of finding me irresistibly attractive, or even of noticing me at all. There had to be more to it than simple proximity.

I was still pondering the matter as I walked up my front path. I was about to rummage for my keys when the door opened and Wendy, who must have been watching for me, hauled me inside, slammed the door and jammed me against the wall as she started pulling at my clothes and seeing how far she could get her tongue down my throat. In a reciprocal spirit I fumbled to try to remove her clothing only for my fingers to find nothing but bare skin.

I know I should have been taken aback by this but to tell the truth I had half expected something of the kind, especially since I had spent far more post-FUCK time close to Wendy than anyone else. Our joint efforts rapidly relieved me of my clothes, with a cry of lustful delight from Wendy when my engorged cock sprang free, and we fucked on the hall floor like animals.

After we had lain there for some time, our urges sated (for the time being), normal sensation began to return to me and I realised how uncomfortable the floor was. Also, I was feeling hungry, so I struggled to my feet.

Wendy followed my efforts with her eyes but was so blissed-out that it took her a moment to find the words to ask where I was going.

"To the kitchen. I need a cheese roll or something."

She looked alarmed. "No, no," she said, and tried hard to stand but was unable to achieve the necessary muscular co-ordination. I helped her up. "I'm planning something," she said. "Please try to wait. I'll be as quick as I can." She motioned me towards the front room, then stumbled off kitchenwards, apparently unconcerned by the great globs of white spunk trickling down her legs.

I slumped on a chair and idly watched the television news (we were in for a heatwave, apparently) while sounds of food preparation issued from the kitchen. Wendy, wearing a few clothes now and moving more normally, but still with an expression of radiant happiness on her face, appeared at intervals to bring me tea or assure me that I had not much longer to wait. Once or twice she stayed long enough to sit down and gaze lovingly in my direction, totally ignoring the television even when my channel-hopping happened upon one of her favourite shows.

Eventually she called me to the dining-room, where I found a superb meal laid out. She had roasted a large joint of pork and served it up with apple sauce (obviously freshly made, not out of a packet) and all the trimmings, with sautéed potatoes and a range of beautifully cooked vegetables.

It was superb. It was also very odd. I knew full well that the joint of pork and many of the other ingredients were things we had not had in the house. She must have planned the whole thing and made time to go shopping specially; no wonder she had wanted me home on time. And she must have worked really hard to prepare such a meal in so short a time; all right, the pork itself was probably cooking on a low heat while we rutted in the hall, but everything else must have been done while I slobbed in front of the television. Nor was this all; when I had cleared my plate of my second helping and positively refused any more, she bounded off to the kitchen and returned with a magnificent dessert to which, stuffed with food as I already was, I was sadly unable to do full justice.

I had to go to the bedroom and lie down to recover, and ponder this new development. It was no revelation that Wendy could cook, but this was the same woman that always proclaimed (with perfect justice) that she worked as long and as hard as I did and certainly was not going to spend her precious evenings in the kitchen; hence our weeknight regime of TV dinners.

There is not much more to say of the evening. When we went to bed we had another bout of glorious sex. And, just as the night before, I awoke in the small hours with another raging hard-on demanding to be relieved. But this time, I woke Wendy up; I had a feeling she would not object. Nor did she. And nor did passionate sex at three-thirty stop her from (successfully) demanding a repeat in the morning.

I lay in bed recovering after this final bout while Wendy showered and got ready for work. When she returned to the bedroom to kiss me goodbye, she was still smiling radiantly but looked puzzled.

"James, darling, what do you think is going on? Don't think I'm complaining," she hastily added, with an appreciative smile that confirmed her lack of objection, "but why are we suddenly so — well, you know — all the time?"

I had feared this. Hitherto she had given no indication that what was going on was in any way out of the ordinary but clearly at some level she had been wondering about it. I could hardly tell her about FUCK, so I should have to play ignorant and try to fob her off somehow. I was not optimistic of my chances; Wendy's persistence was one of her most striking characteristics.

"I don't think you should worry about it," I cautiously began. I was about to add that I was puzzled as she, but it would probably wear off and meanwhile we should enjoy it; but I checked myself when I saw her quizzical look instantly replaced by one of reassured relief.

"OK," she said, kissed me warmly, and left. So this brief exchange left me with yet more to ponder.

My priorities for the rest of the day were to see Uncle Albert's solicitor and try to make a start on sorting out his house. I was seeing the lawyer at ten o'clock so I showered and breakfasted quickly. I was not surprised to hear Kylie Rico let herself back in next door shortly after her mother had gone out. Maybe she did this every day.