Agatha's Missing Days

She climbed the hill into town and started to flit from shop to shop looking for what she required. Eventually, she found what she sought. The bright lights in the window of the department store stood out against the winter gloom. The name McDonalds hung over the entrance. She had visited the Glasgow branch at one point in her previous existence so was certain they would have what she required. Within twenty minutes she was exiting the store, a small parcel under her arm.

Back in her room she placed the parcel on the dresser. She did not want to open it yet. She knew what was inside and wanted it to be a pleasure when she unwrapped it the next day. Agatha was so happy. She had bought something that would bring pleasure to both her and Bob. She had almost forgotten Archie and fleeting memories of Rosalind seemed to come from another time. Had it only been five days? It was as if it were an entirely different life.

That evening she was inspired. Words flowed from her pen onto the hotel paper. At one point she had to ask them to send up some more. She could see that busybody once again in her mind. She could even see the village in which she lived, a small place tucked away in the countryside. She had seen such villages in Hampshire and Sussex. In her mind they were always a home to murder and intrigue, dead colonels, seedy vicars. By the time she went to bed Agatha had the outline of an entire new book. The old lady would be the last person anyone would think to be a detective. As she fell asleep, titles whirled in her mind: Death in the Village, A Parish Poisoning, Murder at the Vicarage. Ah! She liked that last one. As she drifted off to sleep she carefully filed it away for future use.

Waking up, her muddled brain took a while to realise it was Thursday, the day he returned. Just the thought of his arms around her made her cunny spasm and she felt the wetness grow between her legs. She had promised herself to wait for Bob. Much as she wanted to plunge her fingers inside that special place, she knew that it was his firm cock that she really wanted to feel there. It would only be a few hours. She could wait. The hours seemed to drag by. Outside, it was a dreary, grey day and Agatha's mood darkened to match the weather. She so wanted him here again, holding her, undressing her, making love to her.

The thought of undressing reminded her of the parcel she had bought the previous day. Lifting it on to the bed, she opened it carefully and took out a sheer silk pink camisole. It was trimmed with lace across the breasts and gathered at the waist, allowing it to flare over her hips like a short skirt. She hoped Bob liked it. If only he would slip the straps from her shoulders, let it slide to the floor (Oh! The feel of the silk as it dripped from her firm nipples!) and then take her in his arms before laying her on the bed and entering her...

Once more, she felt the wetness between her thighs. She really needed to control herself. A glance at the clock told her it would only be a few hours until he returned. She wanted everything to be perfect so, carefully, she stowed the pages that she had written the previous evening in her case, tidied the room and then ran a bath.

Before long she was luxuriating in the warm water, guiding the soap over her breasts and washing her cunny. (Perhaps if she were very good he would lick her there again... No! No! She must exercise more self-control!) Agatha felt she could lie there for hours but did not want to run the risk of Bob returning early. She climbed out and dried herself then rang down to reception to ask for a bottle of champagne. This was going to be a night she wanted to remember for ever.

The clock ticked ever onward. The ice around the newly arrived champagne started to melt. Standing in front of the mirror she lifted the camisole over her head and let it slide down her body. The material seemed to cling and caress her body. Oh, if only he were here to do the same! Suddenly, she heard sounds in the corridor outside and her door swung open. Turning, she saw Bob standing there. He stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. Something in his manner stopped her rushing towards him. He glanced at the newspaper in his hand and looked up at her.

"Agatha."

It took moments to register with her. He had not called her Theresa or Miss Neele. He had used her name, her real name, the one she had never spoken to him. As she stepped towards him she looked at the newspaper. There, on the front page of the Daily Mirror, was a picture, a picture of her and Rosalind. She tried to step forward again but something held her back. A darkness descended upon her and she felt herself falling, falling...

...

When she awoke, she was in her bed. The room was dark but she could sense another presence.

"Bob?"

"Yes, Miss Christie?"

Agatha sat up suddenly. Everything that had happened since Bob opened the door came flooding back. She reached out and turned on the bedside light. He was sitting in a chair, looking nervously at her.

"What did you call me?"

"Err...Miss Christie."

She could feel the tears pricking at her eyes and struggled to continue.

"Don't call me...never call me that. How did you...how long have you...?"

She could not go on. She looked at him as the tears came to her eyes and began to fall on her cheeks. He didn't move but, after a struggle, explained.

"It was this morning. We were waiting at the station in Scarborough and I found the newspaper in the waiting room. It's Tuesday's. You're in them all. Questions have been asked in Parliament. Everyone thinks you are dead."

After a pause he continued.

"Why? Why did you do it? Was I just some joke to you?"

Any self-control Agatha believed she possessed broke. She sobbed. She howled. She lay on the bed and tried to roll up into a ball. Finally she felt Bob's arms around her.

"Hush there. We don't need this."

She buried her face in his chest. The sobs were less frequent and, finally, she managed to talk. She stammered out her story, of Archie's affair, of him leaving her, of the escape to...wherever, of ending up in this hotel, of finding him and, finally, how he had made her feel. When she had finished, she looked up into his face. He kissed her gently but there was no passion in it. It was a kiss that said 'It will be all right, I'll look after you' rather than one that was a prelude to passion. She knew he would not stay with her that night, she would not feel him inside her. Instead, he lay her down on the bed and stroked her hair until, gradually, she fell asleep.

She awoke in the night and he was gone. Climbing from the bed she stood once more in front of the mirror. She looked at herself. Who was she fooling? She was just a rather plain, middle-aged woman. Was it any surprise Archie was leaving her? She looked down at the silk camisole that enveloped her body. Why had she bothered? With one movement she ripped it from top to bottom. It fell from her body and she let it lie there on the floor, a ruined piece of material rather than a garment.

Throwing herself back onto the bed she rubbed furiously at her bud, desperately trying to bring back some of the feelings she had experienced with Bob. Finally, an orgasm came but it left her feeling emptier than before. This was not romantic, just a body's mechanical response. She hated herself for reducing the pleasure she had felt in the last five days to a sordid action. Thankfully sleep soon returned.

She was awoken by the telephone in the room. She was not sure if she should answer it but finally struggled across the room and reached for it. It was him.

"May I come up to see you?"

She could not believe he had to ask but agreed nonetheless. This time, though, she did not want to greet him naked. She told him to come up in twenty minutes - it sounded like an appointment - and proceeded to dress. When he tapped on the door she opened it formally and invited him in. She knew what he was going to say. He would have to tell her husband. She could not stay here for ever. With an emotionless tone, she agreed. Yes, tell the police. Let them tell Archie. She knew she would have to stay in her room now. Once the story broke there would be press surrounding the hotel.

She asked him to arrange to have her meals sent up. He was now just a hotel employee. The lover she had known, had wanted, seemed to be gone. Around the middle of the afternoon, a porter brought her a message from reception. Her husband, that deceitful bastard, was coming to collect her. He would arrive tomorrow to take her home. It seemed as if everything was returning to the way it had been. Had the intervening days even happened? She began to doubt her own memory. Then she saw the newspaper, her face still staring from the front page. That was the paper Bob had brought back with him last night when she thought he would make love to her again.

She saw the torn silk camisole lying on the floor, gathered it up and dumped it in the waste paper basket. It was an embarrassment, a sign of her desperation. The rest of the room was spotless. Of course, she had tidied it for Bob but now it mocked her. She was trapped in this room for another twenty-four hours with nothing to do. She stared at the blank paper on her desk. She certainly had no desire to write anything. In fact, she was not sure she wanted to commit words to paper ever again. After a cursory supper, brought to her room by an intrigued young girl, she returned to bed.

Saturday. The day that would return her to reality, to the world she had sought to escape. As with all these early December days, it dawned grey and late. As Agatha dressed she felt that the day summed up her life quite successfully. Dull, grey, uninteresting. Another message was brought to her. Archie would arrive shortly after lunch. She crumpled it up and threw it into the bin where it sat on top of her discarded silk garment. What could she do apart from sit on the bed and feel sorry for herself? The morning seemed to stretch into endless hours. Finally, the phone rang. The clipped receptionist voice on the end told her Archie had arrived and was waiting in reception. Someone was coming up for her case. A knock on the door. Agatha opened it. The porter stood there, awaiting her case and, beside him, stood Bob.

"Can I take your case, ma'am? This gentleman, Mr Tappin, would like to speak to you."

Agatha handed over her case, telling the porter to inform her husband that she would soon be down, she just had to change. With a curious, sidelong glance at Bob, the porter departed. Bob stepped into the room, shutting the door behind him. The silence was solid. Both of them looked anywhere but at the other. Finally, they both began to speak at once.

"I'm sorry..."

"I should have told you..."

The confusion cut through the atmosphere and they both laughed. Finally, they looked at each other and it was as if it were that first night. They fell into each other's arms and their lips met. Again, she felt Bob's tongue push between her lips. His hands pressed against her breasts through her dress. She felt her nipples harden.

"Do you...," he began but she interrupted.

"Yes, yes, I need you, I want you to make love to me one more time. I need to feel you inside me again."

Hardly pausing for breath, Bob turned her around. Agatha leant forward, bending over the chair. She could feel Bob's hands lifting her dress, her knickers being pulled down. She pressed towards him, spreading her legs, exposing her cunny to him. The wetness had returned. She felt the head of his cock pressing against her and then he was inside her once more, filling her, stretching her. It seemed as if he was buried deeper in her than before but still she pushed back, willing him in even more. He started to stroke in and out and, within moments, she felt her orgasm building. Still he thrust into her, his hands grasping her hips, pounding, pounding.

She became aware of words escaping his lips. While his cock took her pleasure to new heights, she realised he was repeating "I love you, I love you". Those words pushed her over the edge. The orgasm broke, stronger than ever before. She could not keep silent and a long, passionate shriek escaped from her as she felt her cunny spasm around that wonderful thick cock. However, he had not filled her yet and kept pressing into her. With a sense of amazement, she felt an almost immediate second orgasm building. Suddenly, he held himself deep inside her and she felt him explode once more. She felt every spurt as he pumped his seed into her. Instantaneously, her second orgasm took control. Did she cry out again? She was uncertain as the pleasure overwhelmed her. All she could do was fall forward as she felt his cock slide from her. As it did so, it brushed against her bud and she almost had a third orgasm, so sensitive was it. All she could do was remain still, clutching the chair, waiting for her body to regain control.

Finally, the shuddering that had seemed to consume her body faded. Slowly she stood, bending to pick up her knickers and step into them. Bob had sat back on the bed, his cock now flaccid between his legs. Holding eye contact with him, Agatha knelt and closed her mouth around his member. Slowly, she let her tongue caress his length, cleaning their respective juices from him. Slowly, she felt him growing again, his erection once more stretching her mouth. Grasping his base, she tugged urgently on his flesh whilst using her tongue to explore every inch of his cock for one last time. With a groan of pleasure, Bob spurted once more. Agatha closed her eyes, revelling in the taste of him in her mouth whilst her cunny was full from his previous ejaculation. She made certain she swallowed every drop. Standing, she leant forward and kissed Bob. They both knew this was goodbye.

"Thank you. Thank you for showing me what love can be. I hope you will find another woman who can be honest with you and give you what I cannot."

His arms reached for her and, for the last time, they held each other close. Then, before she broke down once more, she turned and walked steadily from the room.

As she walked along the corridor and journeyed down in the lift, it was as if her previous life was being washed from her. She would go back with Archie now but it was simply for the sake of appearances. She would not stay with him and play the fool while he slept with his mistress behind her back. As the lift door opened, she saw him in reception. He had his back to her and was consulting his watch. The sound of the door opening made him turn.

"Agatha, what on earth...?" he began.

"I sent a message down. I was changing."

"I didn't mean that. I meant...everything...running away."

Agatha wondered what she should say, what she could say.

"I don't know. Maybe I lost my memory for a while. Maybe I was looking for something. Who knows? Perhaps I found it."

She leaned forward and kissed him, finding it hard not to laugh, knowing where her lips had been so recently. Seeing the Rolls outside the glass doors, she headed outside. A journalist was leaning against the wall, slyly smoking a cheap cigarette. He stood quickly as she emerged from the hotel doorway.

"Miss Christie, Miss Christie, why did you come to Harrogate? What have you been doing here?"

"Oh, I don't know. Some Christmas shopping?"

She laughed and climbed in the Rolls. After a few moments, Archie opened the door and sat behind the wheel. Neither of them said anything. The engine started and they pulled away, down the drive into the grey winter of Harrogate. She stared out of the car window as she had stared out of the train window one week ago. The greyness meant that the countryside seemed exactly the same. But there had been a change. Agatha knew it and, if Archie did not know it yet, he soon would.

She was no longer the subservient little lady who brought in the money but could not spend it. As she felt Bob's seed slip from her cunny and pool in her knickers, she knew that she was now in charge. She knew the smell of sex must be filling the car. She knew Archie must be able to smell it but dared not say a thing. She knew she was going to make a new life in which she was the most important person. She knew.