Chapter 7: Girl next door

The events of the day had stunned me. I had had no idea things might go this far. Not only had I just rendered worthless the marriage vows on which I had based my life for twenty years; not only had the sex been utterly out of this world; but to cap it all this sexy, vivacious young woman, her whole life before her, had just pledged herself unconditionally and with every appearance of desperate sincerity to a fat, bald, middle-aged married insurance manager.

I thought long and hard without really getting anywhere. Eventually I heard the key in the door and Wendy appeared, laden with provisions for whatever lavish meal she had in mind for tonight. Finding me already home, she of course (for so quickly had I come to take these things for granted) leapt on me instantly. Fortunately I had had time to recover from my exertions with Connie and was well able to measure up. At first I found it disturbing that I was fucking my loving and blissfully unaware wife a few short hours after breaking my most solemn vows to her, but as I got into the swing of it instinct took over.

After the sex, Wendy struggled off to the kitchen but just as she went she announced, "I've got something for you, darling," and passed me a large carrier bag. I thought it odd that she did not stay to watch me look inside. I opened it. It contained at least fifty pounds' worth of assorted dirty books.

I find it hard to quantify the number of different levels at which this disturbed me. Here are a few in no special order.

1. As dirty books go, they were rotten. Wendy obviously had no idea what I liked so had settled for a bit of everything. Most of it was of no interest to me at all. And she had apparently gone to an ordinary newsagent so it was generally very tame material. Until this moment it had never occurred to me what a very personal act the selection of pornography is; you do not want anyone else to do it for you.

2. The idea of my very respectable wife's marching up to the counter of a street corner newsagent and spending fifty quid on girly books was too gruesome to contemplate.

3. I had just had very satisfying sex. This is not the time I want to see pornography.

4. A few days ago Wendy had been making my life a misery and threatening divorce because of this very issue. What was she trying to prove?

I went to the kitchen and said we had to talk. Without any argument she stopped cooking and gave me her complete attention. When I asked what she was playing at she seemed taken aback and said she had decided it was silly of her to object to my use of porn since I evidently enjoyed it, so she had bought some books to replace the ones she had thrown away on Sunday. She thought we might look at them later. She had thought I would be pleased.

I gave it to her very straight about dirty books.

1. I would buy them.

2. I would look at them alone. This was not something we could do together.

3. Not only was she not to buy them, she was not to look at them even in my absence. If she found them accidentally she was to put them back at once without looking at them.

Did she understand? Yes. She looked so repentant that I let her have a few kind words to the effect that she had meant well. I accepted her proffered apology, and she looked a bit less miserable and returned to her cooking.

This was yet another strange incident to ponder. Even leaving aside the extraordinary change in our sex life, Wendy's general attitude had altered remarkably post-FUCK (I realised I was beginning to divide my life into pre- and post-FUCK). Pre-FUCK, she had been, on the whole, a good and devoted wife to me, and I had loved her dearly, but she had been very much one to stand up for herself, she had had no hesitation in letting me know when she felt I was at fault in any way, and she was extremely stubborn when she had decided what she wanted. Post-FUCK, she had been doing everything possible to please me; nothing was too much trouble even when she would have had every right to put her feet up and take it easy. But I felt that all these things were superficial; there was some more fundamental change going on, and it frustrated me that I could not put my finger on it.

I could hear her humming contentedly to herself while she chopped vegetables and then it struck me. Post-FUCK, she was happy.

This realisation astonished me. Of course the old Wendy had had good days, but she had been fed up and miserable a lot of the time, harassed by this, worried about that, annoyed by something else. But for the last few days, she had been a picture of radiant happiness; not just that, but she seemed satisfied and fulfilled as well. The only time I had seen her upset was just now, when I showed my displeasure about the dirty books.

Over dinner, I asked her straight out how she felt about life; had she noticed anything different lately?

"You mean, apart from our being at it like knives all the time?" she smiled. I nodded.

"Oh, yes," she said. "I suppose I started counting my blessings. I can tell you exactly when it was, too. On Tuesday night, when we were supposed to talk about the [she gave a shudder before she could say the word] divorce I began to think about how miserable I must have made you the night before, when Albert died, and I felt really guilty about it and the more I thought about it the more I realised I had a fine husband, a king among men, and I couldn't think why I should want to divorce him. The whole idea seemed ridiculous; it still does. Ever since, I've just wanted to make up for it."

"And how do you feel in yourself?"

The question obviously surprised her. She had to think for a moment. "Well," she said, "now you mention it, I feel marvellous. I don't think I've ever been happier, even when we were first married. Isn't that strange?"

Now it was my turn to hesitate. I was aware I was skating on very thin ice here but I desperately needed to understand what was going on. While I was still debating whether "yes" or "no" was the more politic answer to Wendy's question, she forestalled me by answering it herself.

"No, actually, it's not strange. What shouldn't I be happy loving and caring for the best husband in the world? Look at the question you asked me just now. You were worried about how I felt when I hadn't even thought about it myself. Is it any wonder that I love you so?"

Rightly recognising this question as rhetorical, I chose to leave it there. Connie and Wendy were very different women but in the space of a few hours, each of them had expressed in her own way her complete devotion to me. It was highly flattering, but I had no idea how I was going to deal with it.

The next day was Saturday and normally would have been spent chasing round shops and catching up on housework. But not this time. It gives me no distress at all to report that Wendy and I spent the entire day in bed fucking. We could not get enough. We behaved like a pair of lovestruck (and luststruck) teenagers; quite the pleasantest and most rewarding Saturday I had spent for years. Suddenly life with FUCK seemed good after all.

More of the same on Sunday would have been most welcome but Wendy had a long-standing commitment to see her aunt in Sussex. Often I accompanied her on these visits because I enjoyed the drive and was quite fond of the old lady, but it would have been hard to reconcile it with the newfound necessity of ejaculating copiously every few hours. Wendy wanted to cancel and stay home with me but I said she ought to go and, as I was coming to expect, she complied with my wishes without demur.

It was another blazing hot day. I knew I ought to go to Albert's but Wendy had taken the car so it meant a bus ride and I found it hard to summon the energy. Eventually I left the house but as I closed my front gate I heard someone call my name.

"Hello, James. Sorry to hear about your uncle. My mum told me."

It was Kylie, leaning over her front gate. She was, as usual, revealingly clad, on this occasion in a pair of rather short football shorts and a white shirt that she had cut off just below her huge tits. The shirt was not buttoned up; she had tied the two corners together under her bra‑less breasts, so as to stretch the thin white fabric over them and hold them together. She must have been spending more time on the sunlounger because she looked incredibly bronzed. Her smiling face — in fact her whole body — glistened with sweat and I saw little rivulets of it running down into the cleavage of her vast bosoms. I was trying to be subtle about where my eyes were resting but she must have noticed because she gave me a cheeky grin and leant farther forward, accentuating her cleavage still further.