Meadowlark

Ninety-year-old Rhys Shaftesbury still found himself breaking into tears at thoughts or mention of his wife, Gail, two weeks after her death. They'd had a wonderful, passionate life together, but cancer finally struck her frail body down at the age of eighty-five. For the past fortnight, condolences and sympathies from colleagues, friends, and acquaintances had poured in, starting almost from the moment Gail had died.

The popular Dr. Shaftesbury, a former chair and now Professor Emeritus at the Department of Bio-Mechanical Engineering, had been active in the faculty and community up until five years ago. However, when Gail became ill, he shed his academic and civic responsibilities and devoted all of his time and fading energy to his dying wife. But now that she was gone, he seemed lost and listless.

"You'd think that in 2042, they'd have a goddamned cure," he yet again muttered to himself as he poked through a box of her belongings.

How the box came into Rhys's possession was somewhat circuitous: Gail had given it to Melanie, the Shaftesbury's eldest child, over a year ago with instructions to hand it to Rhys one week after her, Gail's, death. Seven days after her mother died, Melanie, like Swiss clockwork, presented the box to her father. The cardboard crate was a surprise to Rhys; he'd known nothing about it. His daughter, carrying out her mother's wishes to the letter, had asked—no, ordered—him to sort through the container and pick out what he wanted to keep.

Rhys was mystified as to how his daughter had ended up so stern and humourless. According to him, she was passionless, and he pitied her husband. Had they not had children, Rhys would've questioned whether their marriage had ever been consummated.

"Well, they must have done it at least twice," he chuckled to himself as he thought about his grandchildren.

He shook his head and pondered where they'd gone wrong with Melanie, how had Gail and he failed to instil joy and wonder into her life? Rhys and Gail prided themselves on how they'd raised their three children. In addition to all the material essentials, the kids had received an abundance of guidance, instruction, independence, laughter, and unconditional love. That over-popular adjective from the turn of the century, dysfunctional, didn't apply to their family. Their two younger offspring, Lucille and Aiden, had that joie de vivre, Rhys thought, but Melanie didn't; dark and brooding best described her character. Indeed, if Melanie weren't his spitting image—and the resemblance was uncanny—he'd have serious doubts about whether or not she was his child. She had, at least, inherited Rhys's work ethic.

Rhys resumed looking through Gail's things, but his worn-out eyes soon glazed over. The box's contents seemed like junk to him. Nothing caught his interest. Her possessions held no appeal. What he wanted was Gail: her laugh, her love, her wit, her passion.

"Hell, I even miss her anger," he whispered while remembering how stormy and headstrong she could be.

His eyes welled up again, causing him to curse himself for his weakness, but his crying continued as he sifted his hand around the box. Then, out of a corner of his tear-blurred vision, he saw the ancient USB flash drive. He picked it up, turned it over in his thick fingers, and sadly smiled.

"Five terabytes. Shit, that used to be a lot of memory," he sighed.

Upon further rummaging, he found an old USB-compatible portable drive reader but with a modern XNL connector. It looked like the card reader had been custom-made.

He was intrigued by this piece of incongruent hardware and wondered if it had been made-to-order by Gail. She was always better at computers—or personal electronic assistants, PEA's, as they were now known—than he was, but he never admitted that to her while she was alive.

It was clear to him that his wife had left the memory stick for him to find, and he correctly assumed that a message from Gail would be on it. So he took the flash card and reader, raised himself from the kitchen table with more enthusiasm than he'd displayed the entire past two weeks, and made his way to the PEA in wonder and hope.

Once there, he connected the card reader to the machine and inserted the memory stick. Only one file resided on the flash drive, and its simple title blindsided him like an unseen automobile at an intersection.

My First Extramarital Affair

Rhys couldn't believe his eyes! "The bitch had fucked around on me!" he fumed. And it was obvious to him from the title that more than one affair had taken place.

Yet despite his outward shock and dismay, his auto-erection implant kicked in, causing his cock to rise and harden. "Shit!" he exclaimed. He'd almost forgotten that he was one of the first recipients of the popular auto-erection device—also known as the Permanent Erectile Neuro-sensitive Implant System, or PENIS. The invention of PENIS was the hallmark achievement of the Bio-Mechanical Engineering department, and it's development occurred during Rhys's tenure as department head. One of the resulting perks that arose from that venture, once the idea and blueprints were sold to the highest bidder, were complimentary implants for Rhys and male members—and/or their male spouses—of the research team.

Rhys's implant functioned by measuring activity within areas of the brain devoted to sexual arousal. Upon detection of sufficient current within the relevant cerebral loci, a series of other devices within his body kicked into action. The result was a towering erection that made teens weep with envy. And while he and Gail—and Patricia, Susan, and a few others, he reminded himself—had tremendously enjoyed themselves with the implant, the truth was that a lascivious thought hadn't crossed his mind in over 5 years, ever since Gail became incapacitated with disease.

Well, all sorts of thoughts were racing through his mind right now—murder, mayhem, and, according to his auto-erection implant, sex. Rhys was pissed off. The thought of his wife cheating on him didn't excite him, or at least he didn't want to admit that it did. Yet there was his cock, loud and proud, aching for action after five years of slumber.

He was tempted to destroy the memory card right there and then, but curiosity and arousal got the better of him, so he opened Gail's file.

My Sweet, Dearest Rhys,

If you're reading this, I'm dead. Please know that words fail to express how much I love you. You're the love of my life, and I feel blessed to have married you and to have had your children. However, you can't begin to comprehend how much you hurt me with your affairs with Susan, Patricia, Anne, and the graduate student whose name escapes me.

"Shit! She knew about them? Fuck me," murmured Rhys as he continued reading the letter.

Yet I never confronted you about your philandering since I would have been a hypocrite to complain about infidelity. For as you may have gathered from the title of this file, I, too, had strayed during our marriage. It is, of course, up to you whether or not you continue reading about my first indiscretion.

If you do decide to read, you'll recognise the events as having taken place in 1987. God, that seems so long ago. However, I wrote my story in 2011, when you were involved with that grad student, which, by the way, coincided with your surgery for that experimental erection device. As they say, timing is everything, and the timing of those two events didn't escape me.

Why did I write about my affair? The honest and simple answer is that I don't know. Superficially, I wrote about it to wound you and fling back the pain I went through during those years. But it was deeper than that, I hope. Perhaps it was an eccentric way of healing myself from the hurt of that affair? Or maybe I was trying to come to terms with my evaporated youth and somehow recapture it? As with many things, the answer—indeed, even the question—is ephemeral and rarely straightforward.

Do I regret having been unfaithful? That question I can answer with certainty: Yes. If there were a way, I would undo my actions in a precious heartbeat. But as you often said, a life without regrets is one that was meek and never on the edge. I only wish that I'd not visited that particular precipice, but what's done is done.

In any case, after writing my story, I submitted it to Penthouse Letters out of morbid curiosity, self-deprecation, and self-loathing. However, if it's of any consolation, that august publishing house rejected it. I'm sure there's symbolism somewhere in that.

But despite all this, my sweetheart, please know that I always loved you, better than my own self. Think about our times together, my lover. Remember how, together, in our youth, we burned hotter and brighter than the golden sun. Please be confident, my darling, that I never gave myself to any man as openly, willingly, and thoroughly as I did to you.

Eternally yours,
Gail, November 2041

Despite Rhys's copious tears, his erection had not abated in the least. He squirmed in discomfort, both physical and emotional, and proceeded to read Gail's story. From the very beginning, Rhys stroked his cock, and he didn't stop until he'd read his wife's tale in full.

My First Extramarital AffairI'm a fifty-five-year-old happily married woman. I have yet to tell my husband this story, and I doubt that I ever will. The following events took place about twenty-five years ago when I was thirty and had been married for about two years. I've cheated twice in twenty-seven years of marriage. This story is about my first indiscretion.

At that time, I still engaged in occasional overseas work. A contract that I'd landed took me to Asia for two months. The work itself was uneventful, which suited me fine. In my community and workplace I maintain a prim and proper image. I work in a small world. Reputations and careers, especially for women, can be ruined in a flash. Therefore, I've always behaved myself to the utmost when it came to my career. The people I've worked with most likely think that I'm a frigid bitch, and I like it that way.

At the end of my contract, my husband was to meet me in Bali for a beach holiday. Unfortunately, his work schedule changed at the last minute, preventing him from getting away. My reaction was immature, and I should've been more understanding; but I got peeved and decided to have a week on the beach after my contract was up, with or without him.

I caught a flight into Denpassar and found a charming beachfront hotel on the north side of Bali, far away from the party crowd of Kuta Beach. It was a delight to relax on a beach and not do much of anything other than have a tropical drink while chatting with fellow travellers.

As young travellers tend to do, they mingle, and soon a group of us, several men and women, all from various countries, started hanging out together on the seashore. In Bali, topless sunbathing is common and was something I'd become accustomed to during my time in Australia, so I was ecstatic to be able to tan my breasts in the hot sun. It's a feeling I've always adored, and it was especially liberating after the two months of work under somewhat puritanical conditions.

The other women in our group, mostly from France and Germany, were like-minded, which made me all the more comfortable to sunbathe bare breasted. I was in good shape then, weighing about 130 lbs., which suited my 5' 7" height. My small breasts were pert with no sag, and my legs were shapely and toned, so I was proud of my body and felt confident and sexy in my semi-nude attire amongst strangers.

About three days into my holiday, I was lounging on the beach on my own one afternoon, reading, relaxing, and enjoying the sun. One of the men from our group walked by, saw me by myself, and came over to chat. Dieter was a handsome twenty-six-year-old Swiss man. Although he was less than six feet in height, his blonde mane, fit body, and perfect posture made him impossible not to notice. His angular facial features served as a contrast to his soft lips and smile, highlighting them all the more. His hair was unruly, but it suited him, and his blue eyes seemed co-ordinated with his mouth, which was always smiling, grinning, or laughing.

Not only was Dieter a treat to look at, but he was intelligent, funny, and charming. It was a pleasure chatting with him—his accent was adorable—and equally pleasurable catching him stealing peeks at my tits. It excited me to have my breasts on display for this delightful man, and I sensed my nipples tighten and harden during our conversation. But I didn't cover them. Instead, I left them bare and reassured myself that I was only chatting, even if subtly flirting and exhibiting, and that nothing more would come of it.

After conversing for about half an hour, he got up to leave and then suggested for the two of us to go sightseeing the next day. Feeling both safe and attracted, I agreed to meet him after breakfast.

When the time came the next day, we met and went off to see some of the temples and attractions. I dressed sensibly: hiking boots, conservative walking shorts, and a modest top. Nothing provocative. We spent a wonderful day together. Just like on the beach, his good looks, wit, and charm were engaging. He made no untoward moves, and I was comfortable in his presence and convinced that it was all innocent.

When we finished our sightseeing and returned to the hotel in the late afternoon, Dieter proposed that we should go for a swim in the ocean. I replied that it sounded good and that I'd meet him on the beach after I'd changed.

I went to my room, stripped, and slipped on my bikini bottom and top. It then struck me that I'd been topless the whole time on the beach, so I removed my top and tossed it back into my suitcase. I reasoned that I didn't want to give the impression that I was now shy and conscious of him. I wanted to keep things the same, which so far had amounted to harmless fun.

I wrapped myself in a sarong and made my way to the water. At this point, some doubts about what I was doing entered my mind. A part of me wanted to stop, yet I continued my trek to the ocean to meet Dieter. "I'm just going for a swim," I told myself. "Nothing to get worked up about."

Dieter was already on the beach when I arrived, waiting for me, and he gave me the most dazzling smile as I walked up to him. I smiled back, removed my sarong as nonchalantly as possible, and waded into the water wearing just my bikini bottom.

We swam around, chatted, and laughed while enjoying the relief that the water provided from the oppressive tropical heat. After a bit, while standing in chest-deep water, Dieter came over to gently kiss me. I could've stopped it there, but instead I kissed back, matching the softness of his lips. As I tasted him, I tensed waiting for his hands to start roaming under the cover of water. I was sure that he'd feel my tits, and at that point I was prepared to shut him down. But he never did touch my breasts or crotch during our swim; his hands stayed on my hips.

I was impressed, to be honest. Impressed with his restraint and patience, both qualities being ones that I admire in a man. But I was also in a quandary; going sightseeing with a handsome stranger was one thing; kissing him in the ocean while half undressed was quite another.

After a few minutes of kissing, we swam some more and then got out of the water to lie on my sarong. I wondered if he'd start touching me, but he didn't maul me in public. Again, that would've been an instant turn-off and an excuse to end whatever it was that was happening. Instead, he remained a gentleman, and we lay there, relaxing and talking, and soon he suggested that we could continue chatting in his room while having a cold beer or two from his fridge.

I was playing a dangerous game. I respected my marriage vows and still do, despite my two indiscretions. I was thirty years old and had been sexually active since my teens, so I wasn't naïve. In other words, I'd been around enough to know what it means when a man invites you to his room for a drink. Nonetheless, I accepted his offer to go to his room.

We got up and I covered myself with my sarong. However, it was wet from us lying on it. Indeed, the sarong was soaked through where it covered my breasts, causing the fabric to cling to my tits. Furthermore, the wet cloth aroused my nipples, hardening and provoking them to poke against the material. Even Dieter noticed them, prompting him to ask if I was cold.

"No, just wet," I replied in innocence, and then realised the double meaning of my answer. Dieter looked at me with amusement while cocking one of his eyebrows. I laughed, playfully hit his shoulder, and told him to behave himself and that he knew what I meant.

Once we entered his room, Dieter said he was going to have a shower to wash off the salt and sand and that I was welcome to do the same. My better judgement said 'no', but I wanted to get the salt off my skin, so I decided to use the shower first.

In the bathroom, I unwrapped my wet sarong and hung it to dry. I then turned on the shower, got in, and let the water pour over me. After about a minute, I slipped out of my bikini bottom and was rinsing and squeezing it when the shower curtain opened. It was Dieter, nude and very casual. "I hope you don't mind," was all he said as he got in.

I was taken aback but didn't voice my concern. I was aware that nudity wasn't a big deal with many Europeans, especially those from the north, yet I'd caught him sneaking peeks at my breasts on the beach, and he'd kissed me in the water. I knew he was attracted to me.

However, if I was confused about Dieter's intentions, I was in a similar dilemma over mine. I'd be a liar if I said that I hadn't thought about sex with Dieter; he was handsome, sexy, and intelligent—my kind of man. I'd cheated on boyfriends when I was single and had never felt a twinge of guilt about it. But this was different; I was married. Despite this, I remained silent, said nothing about Dieter's entry, and continued showering with him.

As we showered, I kept expecting him to start touching and kissing me, but he didn't. Instead, we looked at each other as the water sprayed us. I watched him soap himself, covering his arms, torso, and legs in suds. The sight of Dieter washing his semi-hard cock, first all around his balls, then coating his penis in soap, excited me.

Although I was spellbound watching his beauty, all sorts of thoughts ran through my head. How did I get in this predicament? What should I do? I also knew that had this situation arisen before marriage, I'd have gone to my knees and taken his gorgeous cock in my mouth. A lot of time has passed since these events, but I recall fighting the urge to do just that. And in the end, I did nothing except stare at his soapy genitals.

Dieter smiled, handed me the soap, and started rinsing himself, stepping into the spray as I stepped back and out of it. He then watched as I used the soap to clean my body, rubbing my arms, legs, tits and belly. When I soaped my vulva and ass, I realised how wet I was. I was secreting juice like mad! Indeed, I was so aroused that I'm sure that my labia were swollen and protruding for him to see.

Had Dieter touched me in the shower, I'd have acquiesced and yielded to him. Instead, after rinsing himself, he smiled and got out. I could no longer deny that I was excited; I'd just felt my vulva when I washed myself in front of him, and I was drenched. Yet I was also amused by his departure and thankful for the slow pace. It made me delude myself into believing that, despite my obvious arousal, I could back out at any time.