Angie's Fuck

Angie is a bag of nerves. Her stomach's in her throat. Her hands are trembling. And her heart is pumping madly. She hasn't behaved like this before. Angie always acted faithfully. The thought of what she's about to do sickens her to the core. But she is driven ... by a raw animal impulse, a need she has to satisfy. She lowers her head in shame and strides through the hotel lobby to the bar in the hope that she won't be recognised.

He is sitting in a gold upholstered sofa chair in the far corner of the bar sipping an iced cola. When he sees her enter the bar, he places the empty tumbler on the glass-topped coffee table and stands. She is pleasantly surprised. He looks older than she expected: late-thirties, early-forties, slightly gone to fat, short stiff brown hair greying at the temples, a soft round kind looking face. She's relieved. She chose well on her dating app - from the nine hundred hopeful men who expressed an interest in her. He appraises her. He's never met a woman like her before.

She seems young, pure, tanned, roses-in-her cheeks, melancholy-in-her-eyes, shocks of honey curls kissing her breasts. She has an intensely alluring face: shiny almond eyes, a cute toffee nose, the thickest pouting cherry flesh lips. A beautiful woman of considerable standing and upbringing. A shy woman in search of love. She dressed simply, stunning him in a plain indigo dress, bared arms, bare legs, poppy red stilettoes. There's no need for an introduction. Angie looks fantastic.

He tries to age her: twenties, thirties, forties? It's impossible to tell. He softens in her presence, becomes more loving, caring, than he has ever felt in his life, finds himself apologizing, sitting up straight for her, like her puppy about to be fed.

'I'm sorry, Angie, did you bring the money?'

Clumsily, she unzips the ruddy leather bag and extracts a thick wad of banknotes. She bites her bottom lip. Her stomach churns. She feels a burning sensation in her urethra. Angie needs to pee.

'Mmmn. It's all there. Would you like to count it?'

He shakes his head, feels sorry for her. She told him it's her first time. She must be absolutely petrified.

'Please, no, there's no need. Let's wait until we're safely inside the bedroom, shall we, Angie?' She is touched by his surprising consideration for her, his warmth towards her. He used her name twice, deliberately. Feeling a warm glow of contentment inside, she permits herself a nervous smile.

'I do need the loo, rather urgently. Can we go, please?'

'Sure, let me carry your bag for you.'

She feels the soft hair on the back of his hand as she passes him her ruddy leather bag, 'Thank you.'

'No problem. If you'd like to follow me. Please.'

She wipes her lips, licks her finger with the tip of her tongue, bites her nails, overwhelming him with her adult innocence, her sensual allure, her natural body scent, 'I'd love to.'

They leave the bar and climb the grand, spiralling, crystal chandeliered staircase as far as the first floor. He leads her to the bedroom at the far end of the empty corridor, opens the door with his zing card. He lets her in first. The toilet is on the immediate left.

She slips inside slamming the door behind her. Angie squats over the loo, her indigo dress hitched high as her breasts, her beige satin panties rolled down to her knees, asking herself, What am I doing here? What got into me all of a sudden? I should be ashamed of myself for what I'm about to do.

She lets her dress slip, shuts her eyes and clasps her hands in her lap, as if in silent prayer: For what I am about to receive may somebody, someone, anyone out there who loves me, make me truly thankful.

Prayer recited: Angie sighs a long, deep sigh of relief. The luxury braided Palisades toilet roll hangs off a brass ring on her left. She pulls off a thick wad and wipes herself dry, enjoying the softness of the tissue rubbing against her cleft, the sad, imaginary softness of Michael's fingers rubbing her, tenderly, rhythmically, caressing her body the way she used to love being caressed: to orgasm: the way she loved the most.

Michael, who used to make sweet passionate love to her on the sun lounger on the veranda in the half-light of dawn, her favourite, romantic time of day. She lets her soiled wad fall in the lavatory pan, twists her supple body at the waist, reaches for her tube of lube, squeezes a healthy, gloopy blob onto her fingertips then smears it, deep inside her love-hole.

Forgive me Michael, she says to herself, opening her eyes, imagining his rugged face smiling down at her intimate act from behind the vanity mirror, It's been five long years. I have to move on now, darling. He's waiting for her next door through the bedroom wall: the man she paid to love, waiting to fuck her.

One last lingering moment of doubt, Not sure I can do this. Of course, you can, Angie-girl. You deserve it after all you went through, caring for Michael. She shakes herself, pulls up her pants, flushes the toilet, throws the used tube in the bin under the wash hand basin, washes her hands, fluffs her bleached honey hair, and opens the door.

She casts her eyes to the right, seeing the brass latch and chain drawn across, securing her inside. No sign of a Do Not Disturb notice. Must be hanging on the doorknob. She would hate to be found out. How would she explain her illicit tryst to her friends at the Bridge Club, at Aquarobics, Swimming, Zumba, Pilates, at the Tennis Club for that matter? How could she explain? I could never tell them, not in a thousand years. My friends wouldn't understand. Think of all the gossip. The scandal in our village.

She permits herself a wry smile. He's gone so far as to stick blue tack over the spyhole! He isn't taking any chances, is he? Chances, with me. I wonder how many other women he's fucked in this bedroom? Wonder if he'll be kind, gentle, tender with me? I wonder if he'll hurt me?

Her nerves haunt her. Angie finds herself trembling, shuddering, at the idea of his lips kissing hers, his hands caressing her breasts, his proud flesh inside hers. Blinking her insidious fears aside, she steps into the bedroom.

Facing her lies a full-length, glass-fronted wardrobe with its doors closed. Next to that, a polished wooden shelf filled with notepads, the hotel's guide, two menus, a full tray of cups and saucers, selected fine teas, coffees, shortbread, a kettle. At the far end of the shelf, next to the pairs of flutes and Slim Jims, stands an ice bucket filled with plastic bottles: still, sparkling mineral water, a bottle of Moet & Chandon champagne, miniatures of claret. There's a narrow mirror above the shelf, a telephone for room service, a wireless internet connection. Lying next to the ice bucket: a bunch of blood red roses.

She thinks of the cash tucked inside her overnight bag. He left it on the chair for her, considerately, unopened. How much has this cost him? she asks herself, the champagne, wine, flowers, the room, their love bed?

The bed is sheer unadulterated luxury, a layered wedding cake of a bed: an eiderdown, indigo bedspread, fluffy cream pillows. All cosy and snug! Her heart warms. Angie feels herself relax, Indigo, cream, my favourite colours. A bed in which to curl up with my lover. He lies on top of their bed. He shaved for her. She likes that. He is naked, slim, fit, pale, neat, trim, short brown hair, slender physique, extremely well hung. Angie can barely bring herself to stare at his cock.

She lingers at the end of the bed, turned away, facing the mirror, murmuring, 'Can you help me unzip my dress, please?'

He doesn't respond, just lies spreadeagled on the king size bed, studying her. He's never encountered a woman so beautiful and vulnerable in his life. He finds himself intrigued, beguiled by her. The sadness in those brown eyes. He desperately wants to help her. Neither of them speak.

Angie glances at the hideous plasma screen hanging off the wall. There's a slideshow playing: shifting images: restaurant, lounge, cocktail bar, a bedroom featuring a luxurious four-poster bed, a table set for afternoon tea, rooftop garden, palm trees, indoor heated swimming pool, underground car park. She finds it distracting. Her brief encounter, her fleeting romance, her craved-for sexual reawakening, will be testing enough for her without the advertorial. She picks up the remote and switches it off.

He closes his eyes and pictures Sian, his beautiful wife, asleep in bed, her magnificent breasts cushioned by the duvet, kissing her soft lips before he left for his illicit tryst. Sian, forever demanding, challenging, insistent that he make love to her until they create her new life, her baby. They've been trying so long. He questions her fertility. But how will his life change if her dream of motherhood comes true? Does he even want a child? How will he cope as the baby's father - with his shameful guilt?

His mind returns to Angie. Is she a mum? What would her kids think of her? Paying for sex with him.

The wall between the bedroom and bathroom is covered in floor-to-ceiling mirror, the hallmark of the lover's suites at Palisades. Angie drops the remote like a hot iron, fearing she might be being watched. The floor-to-ceiling windows look out over a square green space dotted with elms, oaks, wrought iron benches clustered around a stone water fountain, a statue of a cherub with a harp spouting urine into the basin. A tramp stretches out over one of the benches enjoying the warm afternoon sunshine. A plump elderly woman, her hair tied up in a bun, feeds a flock of pigeons titbits, crumbs of stale bread from a paper bag. Angie thinks, that will be me one day.

She draws the curtain, plunging the room into darkness. He is afraid of the dark. The shock of darkness brings back vivid memories of the terrible day when he and Sian, yes, Sian was there, mowed down a young mother and child, killing her baby instantly, the force of the collision hurling the buggy against a stone wall, her bloodied baby hanging off the straps of the buggy, the woman: lying, bent and twisted under the wheels of their hybrid 4x4. How Sian pleaded with him to leave the scene, the maimed woman screaming in agony under the wheels. How Sian forced him to reverse off her mangled body. How Sian insisted they left her, drove off. Their collective guilt. Miraculously, the woman survived: to stalk him, to terrorize him, to endlessly haunt him, for his sins.

Angie breaks his silence, 'Turn on the lights for me.'

Relieved, his nightmare over, at least, for now, he fumbles for the dimmer light switch. The light comes on. Angie moves to the other side of the bed, more confident, ready for him, now. She stands facing the full-length mirror, watching him slide across the bed: to be with her. He stands behind her, pressing his proud flesh into her creased indigo dress, her back.

Offering him no resistance, she explains why she is there, her voice subdued, a whisper. 'My husband died of cancer five years ago. He was my steadfast pillar of support, my best friend, my lover. I talk to him every morning when I wake. Pray for him each night before I go to bed. I think of him every minute of the day. My life is empty, pointless without him.'

'I'm sorry. How long were you married for?'

'Ten years.'

He feels an overbearing sense of remorse, a compassion for her. Feels sorry for her. He wants to love her, care for her, make up for the loss she's endured, her loneliness, do something good for once in his life. Ten years? She must be thirty, maybe as old as forty, fifty, yet she doesn't look a day over twenty.

'That must be really hard for you, Angie,' he says, holding her waist.

'It is hard. Michael and I were inseparable. We played together, shared the same interests: golf, tennis, swimming, keeping ourselves fit. We even worked together. We set up a successful cleaning company.'

He's surprised, his hold tightens, 'Cleaning company? I thought you might work as a beauty therapist.'

The slightest hint of a smile appears on Angie's cherry flesh lips, 'Why did you think that?'

'Because you have such a beautiful face.'

She blushes, 'You're just being kind.

'Not at all. You're a very attractive woman.'

'I try to stay young.'

He shifts the subject, 'Do you have any children?'

'No, I couldn't have children.'

'I'm sorry.'

'Don't be! I am perfectly happy without children. I lead a very busy life.'

She pauses to think: and you, are you married? Do you have any children waiting for you at home? Are there other women, passing strangers in your life, rearing your unwanted bastards? Tell me your secrets. She decides against. The thought of discussing his marriage (surely he isn't married?), his illegitimate clutch of children, she finds distracting. Does she really want to know?

She runs out of small talk. He talks to her silently, exploring her with his fingertips, his puckered lips. Angie sighs as he gently unclasps the hook on her dress, drawing its zip as far as her bra strap, fluffing her honey hair, kissing her earlobes, the tell-tale brown hairs on the nape of her neck, pressing his lips into her soft tanned skin, brushing the hairy down on her upper back. She feels goosebumps rising on her exposed skin. Feels him pull the zip as far as the small of her back, licking a trace down her spine, savouring her skin, feels him lick her body, a fresh, tingling, sensation in her cleft, a zest for living she hasn't felt for years.

God, it's started!

'Please,' she murmurs.

He eases the dress off her shoulders. She slips the fabric down her arms, pulling it off as far as her hips, exposing her shoulders, her slender back, her midriff, her waist, for him to hold to kiss. His lips press into the small of her back. He holds her hips. The dress falls in a crumpled heap around her ankles. She steps out of it showing off her beige underwired bra, her satin briefs.

Angie's body is magnificent. She is perfectly proportioned, well cared for: she has a blemish-free tanned complexion. Her skin feels well nourished. He leans into her, his lips brushing her bronzed skin, addicted to her intimate body scent, he just can't stop kissing her divine flesh.

'Mmmn?'

'Be Michael for me.'

He's engaged in roleplay for clients before as part of their erotic fantasies. But this is the first time he ever performed the role of a woman's dead husband. He finds the prospect daunting, detecting a subtle change in Angie who has shaken off her pre-sex jitters, become more strident, dominant. He suspects she has a plan, a screenplay for him, her performing sealion, her captive puppet-on-a-string, to act out. He isn't far wrong.

'How would you like me to act for you, Angie?' he asks, gently massaging her shoulders.

She smiles fully for the first time. The smile lights up her face, 'I'll help you. Listen to me carefully. Do what I say, what I tell you to do. Pretend you have just come home late after a hard day at the office. You find me waiting for you in our bedroom, getting undressed for bed. You love to watch me undress. You love me to wear satin for you. I dress in my silky satin slip for you. Pretend for me? Please? Then let your imagination run wild. Is that any help?'

He swallows hard, 'I think so.'

She reaches behind her back, fiddling with her bra clasp, 'One more thing. Call me Angela. My husband always called me Angela when we made love.'

Made love. Such an old-fashioned expression. We're about to fuck and she wants me to make love to her as her dead husband. He remembers her payment, the cost of hiring the lover's suite for the night, Moet & Chandon, train tickets. Sian awaiting his return, none the wiser. What would she do to him, to herself, if she found out? The consequences of his infidelity, his fake life, don't bear thinking about. He re-focusses, checks his watch. If he gets his skates on, he might just catch the 16:43 back to Paddington. He could be home with Sian by eight, pretend he's had another tiresome day selling financial investment proposals to bereaved women.

He hears Angie's refined voice articulating in the background (she hasn't paid him yet), 'Shall we make a start?'

She has his full, undivided attention.

He grasps her slender waist, 'Yes, where do we begin?'

She sweats profusely. She makes a start, 'You're home late tonight, darling.'

'I had a hard day at the office, Angie.'

'No, not Angie,' she chides, 'Angela.'

He removes his hands from her midriff, realizing he shouldn't be touching her there just yet, 'Sorry, I meant Angela.'

She unclips her bra, 'There's no need to apologize. Being in love means never having to say sorry to each other, doesn't it?'

He nods his understanding. The truth finally dawns on him. This fantasy, this roleplay of hers, isn't just make believe. This is for real. He watches her, dry-mouthed, in the mirror as she casually slips the bra straps over her shoulders, letting the straps hang off her elbows, easing the cups off her breasts.

She lets her bra fall on the carpet, reaching for him, wanting him to touch her. He gasps at the sight of her buoyant, floppy breasts, her flat round beige nipples, her tiny teatlets speckled with sweat. She cranes her head. They kiss deeply pausing for breath.

When she manages to speak, her voice is hushed, 'You can rub my breasts, if you like, Michael. Would you like to rub my breasts?'

He cups her breasts in his hands, loving the feeling of the soft undersides, her sore bra weals, kneading her rounded, doughy breasts, flicking, bending, teasing, rubbing her nipples until her teats are full, erect.

'Love that, don't you? Love it when you rub my breasts. I love you, Michael. Do you still love me?'

He gasps, lost for words. He's never felt, touched, caressed, loved, a woman like this before, a beautiful woman like Angie. Her sensuous allure erases Sian from his mind, obliterating her. After several tense, silent moments, he finds his voice, hissing fatal words in her ear, his voice slurring dreamily, thrilled to be captivated by her magic trance, 'I do, Angela, I love you.'

The truth is, he really means it. They lie on the bed, he moulds his body around hers, freeing her, releasing all her pent-up inhibitions, her mournful grief. Languishing in his forceful pressure, relishing the frisson of his warm chest brushing her back, the divine sensation of his proud flesh: erect, turgid, hard, pressing into the crevice between her fleshy buttocks.

She relents, capitulating, losing control, groaning for him, as he kneads her breasts. She draws his hungry mouth to hers, kissing-him-some-more, covering his hands with hers. She slides his palms over her soft tummy, encouraging him to explore her navel, her concealed belly button. His firm hands caress her belly.

She slips his fingers inside her moist satin briefs, tantalising him, allowing him to fondle her soft hairy mound.

'Pull down my pants,' she pleads, her voice hoarse, husky with sex.

He obliges her, stripping her of her satin briefs as far as her knees. Mesmerized by her explicit reveal, her daring final denouement, he lets her go.

She drops her pants, kicking them off, breathing, heavily, exhaling, panting, gasping, struggling to speak as she feels so aroused, 'Lie on your back. Face the mirror. Close your eyes. And wait.'

She goes to the bathroom. He stretches out on the bed, shuts his eyes, and waits for her to come.

'You can open your eyes now.'

He opens his eyes. Angie is standing at the end of the bed sipping a glass of red wine. She's wiped off her lipstick, make-up: natural blushes colour her cheeks. She looks sensational. She finishes her wine then spreads her body all over his: her slender back resting on his belly, her soft buttocks nestling in his groin, her full breast touching his lips.