Truth

Welcome to my latest story. A study of sexuality as much as relationships. Yes, it is long; yes it takes its time to amble to what lots of you may be after. But I make no apologies for that.

No trees were hurt in the making of this story, and no humans either, because it is a work of fiction. Feel free to comment. I do read them. But if I don't like them, I will delete them, for that is my right.

Thanks to my followers.

Read on:

The crick in his neck reminded him that he had been at this too long, so he sat upright, removing his eyes from the binocular vision of the microscope, and slipped on his glasses as he did so. Before him, he could not help but notice and admire the very firm posterior of his young assistant, as she gently swayed from side to side, whilst she too looked into her own scope. He was sure that she stood, rather than sat, just so that she could perfectly present her unquestionably well proportioned, tight chassis to him.

Alana had been his assistant for three years, and during that time, she had flirted with him immeasurably. He was sure that she fancied him. But then all men like to think that a gorgeous woman, such as Alana, could fancy them. And why not? It did their egos the power of good, just as it did his. As long as he looked, but did not touch, he was convinced that he was not doing too much wrong.

Alana wore her lab coat, like she would any fashion apparel. The sleeves were pushed up, the front unbuttoned. And if he didn't know better, he would say that she had shortened the length of it. As he watched her firm buttocks sway slowly from side to side, he couldn't help his eyes from taking the long, slow journey, along the outer edge of her thigh, down to the hem of the coat, then over the outside of her knee, and down her calf, to the plain black high heels. She wasn't a tall girl, and compensated this by wearing incredibly high heels. Heels that for any man, were the epitome of erotica and sexuality. He had no idea just how short her skirt was, but as it was still not visible beneath the hem of the shortened lab coat, he could only surmise that it was very short indeed.

He realised that he had been staring now for a while, at what can only be described as the eighth wonder of the world. Alana's tight, toned posterior was only one of her endearingly attractive features, her two shapely legs, another. He watched his assistant as she cocked up her right leg, until the heel of her shoe touched her right buttock, then she lowered it so that her ankle rested onto the heel of her left leg. Trist for some reason found this to be extremely arousing, and began to feel an unhealthy lust growing within himself. A lust borne out of sexual starvation.

Alana's shapely calf was encapsulated in the black weave of her tights, and as she rested her ankle upon the back of her heel, the 'swish' of the nylon rubbing together suddenly gave Trist goosebumps. Realising that his deprived body was over reacting, he guiltily returned to his work, having the devil of a time getting his feelings back under control, along with another part of his anatomy.

He thought back to a time, less than a few years ago, when his wife would have worn the same attire. But these days, for work or otherwise; she would always be found in trousers. The flush of excitement one gets from the early discoveries of new relationships and trying to please a new partner, were long gone in theirs. His wife would say that wearing trousers were far more practical, that was why men wore them, so why shouldn't women? He could see that and had no argument. But she went even further, wearing long jumpers or tops, to hide her lovely bum. It appeared to him, that she was almost going out of her way to avoid arousing him in any shape or form.

When he had subtly raised on a number of occasions that she rarely wore a dress or skirt these days, she merely brushed off his comment saying, "A dress would just get in the way." He was of course disappointed with that answer, but let the conversation drop. Sexist it may be considered, but to him, a woman in a dress or skirt, looked so much more feminine. Undoubtedly due to programming, media advertising, historical stereotypes. But he didn't care about any of that, he knew what he liked in a woman, and knew too, that he would do whatever she wanted him to do, to please her. He just couldn't understand why she didn't seem to feel the same way about him anymore? Maybe Christine, his wife, was wanting less attention from him, and that was simply what was happening here?

To be fair though, she couldn't be getting much less attention, than she was at the moment. Because other than a morning peck on the cheek as he left for work, or a greeting kiss when he returned; that was the extent of their intimacy, and had been for the last year and a half, maybe longer. He had tried on several occasions to instigate romance, but Christine seemed oblivious to those attempts and would often circumvent them becoming a full-blown attempt, by 'cutting him off at the pass'. She was infuriating that way, reading his mind before a thought had even crystalised within him. It was becoming evident, that after 10 years of marriage, Christine had lost interest in him, sexually at least. She might be happy with a sexless marriage, but Trist was a 32-year-old, red-bloodied male. He loved Christine dearly, but was reaching the point where something had to give. A direct conversation on the subject, though confrontational, was likely to be the result and he knew it would be upsetting for them both.

In truth, Trist did not want to have that conversation, he hated upsetting his wife, so really did not know the best way to handle the situation they were in, despite their years together, or maybe because of it. The longer he left it, the harder it seemed to get, in both senses.

He couldn't fully blame Christine either. He was hardly a cover model himself. He stayed in trim shape, was fit, was nicely muscled, but at heart was just a science geek. A subject that his wife knew little about and of which, she made no attempt to glean more. So, their conversations would never be about his day at work, and would centre about her. He recalled the last time they had been intimate, was after a party at their friend's house. They had been separated for much of the evening, socialising. He had no idea how much she had drunk, and was very surprised on the drive home, when she suddenly popped off her seatbelt, and rested her head on his thigh, stoking him through his trousers, until he had become erect, then dealing with that erection for him.

At which point, she promptly fell asleep for the remainder of the journey. When he then tried to undress her and put her to bed at home, she said to him, she was too tired for sex. Again, stamping out his ardour.

Trist's eyes strayed back to the 'temptation of Adam'. Alana had moved and had adopted an open legged stance, her tight, short, skirt appearing to prevent her legs from being opened too wide. But the 'A-frame', she had created before Trist had produced one thought, and one thought only in his head. In both of his heads. To top her stance, Alana had both of her elbows on the bench before her. Her arms either side of the microscope, palms flat to the surface, as if in submission. Instead of swaying from side to side now though, she rocked gently forwards and backwards. Again, to Trist's confused, befuddled and lusting mind, this represented only one thing. He had to stop himself thinking in this way, and tore his eyes away. Only to find them back again, seconds later, this time looking at her legs again.

The light had caught upon the sheerness of her tights. The refraction making Trist think that perhaps these were made of silk, rather than nylon. Silk was so much more of a decadent material, more sexual, more exotic than nylon. His brain ran on further thinking that Alana might not be wearing tights at all, but might be wearing stockings? The shimmering light, playing upon her legs, held him entranced in indulgent sensual bliss. Could she really not know how she was presenting herself to him? He knew she flirted with him often, maybe she wanted more? Eight, plus inches more?

"You know Trist," Alana stood up straight and span around, almost catching him ogling at her. "I think it is time for a tea. Do you fancy a quick one before lunch?"

There it was again; she couldn't seem to help herself. He watched her smiling coyly, waiting for his answer. "Sure, you know how I like it."

"Of course, hot, wet and sugary!"

"Yep, you've put your finger right on it."

"Oh, would that I could," she whispered under her breath. Realising herself that she would be taking things a little too far if she said that out loud. But Trist had heard, just the same. "Sorry?" He said.

"I said," Alana blushed, thinking fast, "how could I forget?"

Trist smiled, knowing damn well what she had said. He liked to force her into overstepping the mark, and then calling her out on the subject. There were certain rules to flirting in a work environment, the 'to and from' bantering etiquette, a path many have stumbled upon. He liked Alana to flounder a little, whilst he watched her suffer in blushes and stuttered words. As she left the lab, her red neck a testament to her embarrassment, Trist found himself laughing. He found his assistant such pleasant company, so easy to get along with.

In the privacy of his own thoughts, he wondered when he had lost that same feeling with his wife? If indeed he had? He thought back to the last time that they had made love. He couldn't remember when that was, or indeed how satisfying it was either. But he could visualise a time when he had taken Christine, with her standing much as Alana had. Her pert breasts swaying to the rhythm of his thrusting. Each withdrawal dragging out a whimper from her, each forward thrust a moan of pleasure. He held onto her hips tightly, making sure every last millimetre of his erect cock was rammed into her, touching her cervix as he fired his heavy broadside of sperm, to smash against her insides. He could hear her now, crying out in pleasure, crying out in lust, just plain crying, as the aftermath of her multi-orgasms subsided. He could still feel the stockings that she wore, beneath his fingertips as he caressed her trembling thighs. An arm beneath her waist, supporting her from collapsing. Her hand gripping upon his bum, holding him in place as she slowly rode back and forth on his member, knowing that he had more in him yet, and that his cock would stay hard as she recovered her breath.

He was now very hard as he thought about that pleasant memory. A memory that seemed to be from years ago. His erection was pulsing hard in his light cotton trousers, but was luckily covered by his lab coat, his indiscretion fully hidden. But his face could not hide the sadness he felt, at the conversation he had had with his wife just five months passed, when he had tried to get from her, what the issue was between them. The conversation had turned defensive, and then sour. Ending in an outburst from Christine that cut him deeply. She had said, that she never liked to dress up for him, that she didn't enjoy wearing the sexy lingerie he bought for her. That she never liked the kinkier aspects of sex that he made her do, that she should be enough, just as she was.

It made him feel like he was coercing her into all the things he enjoyed, when he thought that she enjoyed them too. He had only wanted to spice up their lovemaking. Asking her to wear lingerie, or occasionally talking about tying her up. Asking her if they could film some of their sessions together, or asking her about her fantasies; that was the sum total of his 'kinks'. Most of which she would not entertain. But her comments then, had made him feel like a monster. And that pain now lay heavily between them. That she had allowed him for so long to think that she was enjoying what they were doing, as much as him; but in truth found it abhorrent, sickened him to the core. It felt like she had betrayed him. Lied to him even.

He loved his wife dearly, but the thought of missionary sex, in bed with the lights off, for the rest of their married life together, was not what he had in mind at all. It was time. Time to face the music and ask Christine the two questions that had been plaguing him for some time now. 'Did she still love him? Or had she found someone else?' Of course, more questions would result from the answers of those two. And it would destroy him if the answers were not what he wanted to hear. But it would be better to know, than to continue to live the lie that they were in at the moment. Truth, was the answer. Of course there was always the possibility, that she did still love him; that she wasn't seeing anyone else; but just did not have an appetite for sex anymore. But he decided to cross that bridge when he came to it.

Trist had been working in close collaboration with the local police constabulary for some years now. They used his services to identify the various substances they came across, to affirm whether they were illegal, or just to identify what they were. He therefore had quite a collection, in his sample room of most of the narcotics, opiates, so called recreational drugs, and indeed, some of the lesser-known substances, such as chloral hydrate.

As a chemist, Trist knew his way around these drugs, their chemical make-up, and uses. He had been working for a while on producing something, that would get him the answers he needed, with no lying, or trying to protect him, or false modesty or for any other reason, that might cause someone to lie. Just the full truth. Yes, he knew it was highly unethical and he knew the consequences of his actions, should he be discovered, but as his intentions were completely pure in motive, he had no concerns about the dilemma of morals in what he was about to do.

By the time that Alana had returned, he had got his concoction ready. The combination of drugs would induce in the subject a calming effect, a pleasant euphoria, but above all, and most important to him, was the complete inability to tell a lie. A truth serum of sorts. Much like in the spy magazines of old. But this was not fiction. The sodium thiopental and amytal base to his serum, would make it very potent, so a small dose was called for. He contentedly knew the worse side effect if he got the dose wrong, was that the test subject would feel sleepy and would drift off to sleep. It would stay in their system for four hours, afterwards, there would be no further effects. The person would be aware of the conversation, and would remember it all afterwards, so again, his morals were not under pressure.

"Here we go, just how you like it."

Trist looked up from the screen of the scanning electron microscope as if engrossed in what he was doing. "Err, great. What, no biscuits?"

"Biscuits? Since when do you ever have biscuits?"

"Oh, I just fancied a little nibble."

"Oh, do you now? Well, let me see what I've got that you can nibble on?"

"I might want to dunk as well."

Alana's mouth fell open, she had no comeback for that, and turning walked back to the door. "I'll make sure I hurry then," she finally managed to quip before exiting.

With his assistant out of the way, Trist poured the little sachet of drugs into her tea. He stirred it a couple of times to help it dissolve, and then sat back at his bench, and waited for his plan to unfold. The one thing he wasn't sure of, was how these drugs might affect the taste of the tea. But it was too late now. If Alana mentioned something, he could say his tasted funny too, and that perhaps the milk was off.

When Alana returned, he was back at his work. She put a plate of biscuits on his bench. "There you go boss, you're now free to have a dunk whenever you like."

Trist looked deeply into the emerald green eyes before him, was he reading too much into her continued flirting? Did she mean any of it? He brushed it off and said instead, "Thank you Alana, that is kind of you. And to return the favour, how about I take us to lunch? I really fancy some pub grub! Nice chunky chips and some ham and eggs. Besides, I couldn't be bothered to make myself some sandwiches this morning."

"Doesn't Christine make them for you?" Alana asked with innocence.

Trist looked up at her again with a confused expression. "No. Why would she do that?"

"Er, because you're married, she is your wife. It is the duty of partners to look after the general welfare of each other. And it is not like she doesn't have the time; I mean she works from home." Alana sounded a little bitter and Trist wondered why, but found himself instead, defending his wife.

"She does work from home, yes. But she is heavily involved in her business and is very busy at the moment. She has enough to worry about, without concerning herself over making me sandwiches."

"I hear what you are saying Trist, but I know I would find the time. That is all I meant." She drained her cup of tea and turned back to her bench, but Trist could see that her neck and cheeks had become flushed, all the way to her ears. He wondered why? It couldn't be the drugs this early.

She suddenly turned, catching him looking at her. "Anyway, when are you going to have a dunk, I have been waiting ever since I got back?" She giggled and turned to face him, her elbows on her knees as she fiddled with her luscious long red hair. It was held in a functional pony-tail, but she had brought it over her shoulder and was picking at the ends, as women do. The rich red, complimented her face and eyes, and held a vibrancy, consistent with her personality. "Busy or not, her loss is my gain. I have been waiting for you to ask me out on a date for ages."

Trist spluttered into his tea. "Hardly a date Alana. Cheap pub grub and a pint, was what I had in mind."

"Last of the big spenders, eh? It's still the nearest I have been to a date in ages."

"Well in that case, I'm happy that I extended the invitation and that you accepted. You have accepted, haven't you?"

"Of course, silly. When shall we go?"

Trist looked at his watch. He calculated that it would take another 20 minutes for the drugs to be in her system. 10 more and she would be fully under their influence. A further four hours, would see them passing through her body. So, by five o'clock, when they usually packed up, she would be fine. But to make sure, he would drive her home. He didn't want her to take a bus home, just in case. He would simply say that he had an errand out her way.

"In half an hour I reckon," he said answering her question finally.

"Good, because I am staving."

"What, did your boyfriend not make you lunch then?" He jokingly responded to her earlier comment.

"Trist! I have not been with him for months. Please keep with the programme!"

"Really.... I... wait, did you actually tell me?"

"I'm sure that I did."

"I on the other hand, am not so sure? However, I'm sorry to hear that. But know that an attractive woman such as you, will not be alone for too long. Unless of course that is what you want?"

"Oh, I know what I want, never you mind. And I intend to get it too."

"That sound ominous."

"It does, doesn't it?" She sniggered, leaving it like that, and returning to her work.

Thirty-five minutes later, she got up and walked over to the coat hooks, hanging up her lab coat, she turned to Trist. "Well, are we going then? This lab work is making me sleepy; I need some fresh air." Trist had become engrossed and as always, had lost track of time. "Of course."

He stood and removed his own lab coat. Taking the time to admire the shortness of Alana's skirt, and the shapeliness of her long legs once more. Without particular concerns about being caught doing it either. As if aware he was watching, she bent down to pick her small clutch bag from the floor. It always amazed Trist why women would bend at the back, as if touching their toes, rather than to bend at the knees and squat down, when retrieving something from the floor. But on this occasion, he was more than happy that with Alana picking up her bag in this way. She presented to him, in the most perfect way possible, her fabulous behind. Her tight, short skirt, rose up along the backs of her legs, as she bent further and further forwards. And in doing so, revealed more and more expanse of toned, black-clad thigh, the glossy sheer material of her tights, seemed to Trist to go on forever.