tagLoving WivesA New and Delicate Balance Ch. 04

A New and Delicate Balance Ch. 04



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.

Right now I love black mirrors. Especially the ones that flatter my reflection and don't care much for reality. The only ones I can look into right now.

You see, I can't ever tell Eric. Not just because I cheated on him. Not even because the child I expect might not be his. Those are reasons enough to keep the secret. But they are not the most horrible secret there is.

The most horrible secret is that I sold out our love to Phil. I sold out all that Eric and I had discovered and nourished together. The tender secrets of our love. The precious gifts we gave each other in the intimacy of our embrace. The shining gems we had mined together. The lustrous gold we had found in our streams.

I sold them and I sold them cheap.


Of course the dream had long ended when his tongue entered my slit and his finger rubbed my clit. No sun, no dream, no illusions.

I let Phil fuck me with his patient tongue. Oh, he was good. I ground myself into him. And I screamed with ecstasy. I grabbed his head and begged him to make me come.

He did. He almost made me pass out. Then he looked up and we smiled into each other's eyes.

He rose and straddled my tits, so his hard cock could reach my mouth. My mind buzzed with blind excitement. It seemed the sun had burnt out all reason, as had his expert tongue.

I just took his purple head between my lips.

I sucked it with all the finesse Eric and I had taught each other. Selling it to the lowest bidder. My tongue danced around his stem and tickled the delicate spot right under his glans.

Then I let him fuck my face until his head entered my throat. And when he came I swallowed all his sperm.

Oh believe me, I was wide-awake when he once more made me orgasm on his busy tongue and fingers. We did a glorious 69.

I was as greedy as your next slut when I sucked his cock into new throbbing hardness. I was bright and vocal when I turned and offered him my backside, crawling on hands and knees.

My voice was clear when I called him lover. There was no doubt about my blatant sluttiness when I begged him to fuck my cunt. And fuck it good.

He did. And he came hard, splashing his load into me. I came with him. I screamed harder than I ever did. My squeezing muscles milked the last of his seed until I had drained him.

Oh, believe me, I was wide awake when we lay there panting. I was all there when he brought me a drink and nibbled on my nipples. We rested. We even talked and laughed.

I needed no dreamy excuses to once again find his spent cock with my mouth. And even after he had come two times, I succeeded in sucking him hard.

The sun beat down on our naked bodies when I felt him squeeze his previous load out of my dripping cunt. He scooped it up and used it to lubricate my ass hole.

I screamed in welcome pain when he rammed his cock in there.


Deluding oneself is quite easy.

As long as you are the only one to know the facts, they are like chewing gum. You can't make them disappear, of course, but you can shape them, morph them into anything more suitable than reality. And a lot easier on your conscience.

I got very good at that.

I knew, even as soon as that morning in August, that our secret would be safe as long as I could keep it that way. Phil had lied to Mary about his having to leave for the city. He would never tell anyone, he did not want to lose Mary over a fling. And I already started to block the whole sordid affair from my mind.

Sordid, yes. As soon as the bliss evaporated, a massive guilt hit me. But I knew at once that I had no use for that. I started to see what happened as a spell. A spell that had now been broken, a bad charm crushed. I ached to see it as a thing beyond my will, as anything but a deed of my doing.

I had to. How would I otherwise be able to look Eric in the eyes, that same afternoon?

I stood under the never-ending shower that was meant to rinse Phil off me and out of me. I was already building the magic wall between what happened and what really happened. Of course I would tell Eric nothing. But I would do better than that.

I would forget.

I would erase every trace, just as I was right then erasing every physical trace. I found no telltale spots or hickeys. I felt sore and stretched, but I knew that I'd tighten up quickly. Thank God I always did. And thank God Phil was not much thicker around than Eric. I just had to postpone my lovemaking until that night.

The thought made me quake with pain: I was planning to postpone loving Eric. The downfall had started. It would just be the first in a never-ending series of painful thoughts to come.

I knew that the biggest risk of betrayal would be me. Under that shower and later, over a half eaten salad, I tackled all the major risks I had to be careful of. But only when Eric arrived, around 4 that afternoon, did I realise that the true danger was in the tiny details. In all the little tender things that had built our love into the precious dwelling it was.



Thank God Phil had left right after he fucked me. Obviously his lie about the city had been a half-truth. I saw him walk to his car with a spring in his step. Boys.

When Eric arrived, I had succeeded not to cry for over an hour. But of course he saw my red eyes when he took off my shades and kissed me. I admired how easy my explanation came. The chloride, of course. The damn chloride.

He had no reason to doubt me, so why should he? But of course he wanted to make love. We hadn't seen each other since the morning before.

I kissed him long and deep, then playfully pushed him away, scrunching up my nose.

"You stink of the city, lover. Take a dive. I'll fetch you a cold beer!"

First hurdle taken.

When I returned with the beer, he just climbed out of the pool. His skin sparkled in the sun. He had been training a lot, lately and Aruba had done him well.

I walked up to him. The water had glued his boxer to his crotch in a nice and sculptured way. I saw his half erection. It gave me a stab to watch how excited he was.

With another playful inspiration I pushed the icy can against his cock, making him jump. I laughed. It sounded shrill. Then I sank to my knees in front of him. I peeled the wet fabric off him and took his swollen cock in my hand. I looked up into his lovely face, feeling a deep shame gush over me.

Here I was pulling tricks to keep the man I loved out of me. I slowly stroked his penis, making the foreskin crawl back over his pink sweet mushroom. I kissed it, tasting the pool. Then I looked up again. The afternoon sun haloed his face. Cool droplets of water fell from his hair. They splashed right on my face.

I took him in my mouth and did the magic dance with my tongue. It reminded me painfully how I had done exactly the same for another man, not more than a few hours ago.

Don't think!

I closed my eyes and sank down on his beloved flesh. I sucked it the way he loved. I played with his balls. My head bobbed, my tongue swirled. I knew he could not last long this way. I tried to stall him to gain time. But when he tried to take his cock out of my mouth, I grabbed his ass cheeks. I took him straight down my throat. No silly ideas, darling, like fucking your slightly stretched wife.

I felt him tighten and expand inside my throat. He came hard and a lot. I almost choked on it. New tears started to run down my cheeks. He never saw them. His climax had taken him off the earth.

He sank next to me and hugged me. He actually thanked me. I had to look away. We talked a bit about the usual nothings. He drank thirstily. I urged him to go shower as our hosts might be back soon.

He hugged me again.

"God. Irene," he said. "How I love you."

I just held back my tears until he disappeared into the house.


I guess I did well enough, that evening. As far as well goes. It felt quite clumsy to me. I had a broomstick straight up my back. I moved like a robot, but no one seemed to notice.

Around six Mary returned, carrying a bag full of barbecue stuff. Phil came in half an hour later. Our eyes met immediately and I felt a blush rise from my throat. Luckily Eric was busy getting the barbecue going.

The evening was hell. We drank and chatted. I knew I'd give myself away if I would be too quiet. So I chattered like a squirrel. But I guess that is what I do usually. No one seemed to take notice yet again.

I could not eat.

I sat right over Phil. He was great. Amazing, actually. It was then that I started to doubt if he had one honest bone in his body. He joked as calmly as ever. He even flirted with me, dammit. I just sat there sweating and he was his cool, suave self as if nothing had happened.

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