tagLoving WivesWe Need to Talk Ch. 04

We Need to Talk Ch. 04


A work of utter fiction. All characters are over 18 years. To make proper sense of this, start with ch. 01. Synopsis: Myra and Wendell, long married empty nesters, struggle with Myra's recent near-adultery, Wendell's long ago adultery, and the memory of Claire Haskell that just won't go away.


I didn't want to, but I went looking for Claire Haskell.

Not physically, no. I didn't want to find her, talk with her, nor have any contact with her at all. But I had to get my mind around why my wife Myra kept bringing up Claire Haskell.

Claire Haskell was my long-ago affair partner. Memories of Claire had unexpectedly returned when my wife Myra was preparing to meet her own boyfriend, the disbarred lawyer David Newton. Myra pointedly recalled my affair with Claire as if that somehow justified what she herself was about to do. Since then, Claire kept popping up in my head at unexpected and unwanted times, and worse, Myra would bring up Claire during our lovemaking. Doubly worse, the memory of what Claire and I had done, the hot sex we had shared, provoked my wife to strong orgasms. I had to understand this and it started with recovering Claire; at least, recovering what I could remember of her.

I hadn't seen Claire for 19 years and hadn't kept up on her whereabouts, but I seem to recall she had moved to San Diego. Her two children would be in their early twenties by now. I expected she had remarried after her divorce from George but I didn't know for sure. After years of absence, the memory of Claire was like a stray cat that had popped up and wouldn't go away.

I found the first traces of Claire in the guest bedroom closet, deep down in a box of old photographs. When I pulled out her picture my heart skipped a beat. Nearly twenty years had passed but she still had an effect on me.

Claire was of medium height, but slender and on the petite side. She had a sensuous way of moving that seemed entirely natural but had the effect of drawing every eye male eye to her. She didn't walk so much as glide, even while wearing heels, and her arms and hands naturally took up poses more suited for the stage than ordinary life, and she did it in an entirely unaffected way. It was just how she was.

She was pictured in an upscale downtown bar, standing with her arms around two girlfriends; I couldn't remember their names; friends from work, I think. Claire was in the center wearing a sleeveless, red lace, high/low dress that was cut to mid-thigh in front to show off her legs. The neckline was high and modest which drew attention to her bare arms. The lace construction, over a lining, had the effect of offering peek-a-boo views, depending on the lighting. It was a seductive dress designed to draw attention, something not every woman could wear, but Claire sure wore it well.

She was wearing shiny-black heels with ankle straps. Her dark hair was up off her neck with little tendrils of hair hanging down, framing her face. She was wearing the pair of gold dangling earrings I had bought her.

She and her friends were smiling and acting goofy. Probably, they had had some alcohol by the looks of it. Claire was by far the prettiest of the three, even with her tongue sticking out at the cameraman. Yes, Claire had been a lot of fun and an enthusiastic lover. Just looking at her picture caused a twinge, an evanescent sharp ache in my chest. And a bit of arousal, too.

I felt guilty looking because I was sure to stir up feelings best left buried. Unexpectedly, I felt a sudden melancholy. Was it for my unrecoverable youth? Regret for the damage I'd caused to my marriage? The pain I'd caused Myra? I'd downplayed to Myra just how hot the sex had been but Myra seemed to sense otherwise. She'd been friends with Claire, good friends, and she knew Claire's capacity for passion and mischief. Yeah, Claire and I had been hot together. Real hot.

Besides her obvious physical attributes, I had been attracted to Claire's intellect. She possessed a superior mind combined with a warm personality. I would've seriously pursued her if we had both been single, but of course we were both married to other people and I pursued her anyway, and she let me catch her.

Our affair had been discovered by her husband, George, who was himself involved with a younger blond girl whom I had thought, at the time, much the inferior catch compared to Claire. With each of them involved in affairs, divorce was a certainty. I wondered how their two young children, a boy and a girl, had fared. I still felt bad about that.

I had my excuses. Myra was deep into young motherhood with our two, the youngest just out of diapers, with seemingly little time for me. I was sandbagged at work, working long hours, stressed by the new realities of medical practice, and often just not around. But, Claire was there. She was available, disconnecting from her philandering husband, and hot to trot. I was too weak to resist.

It had nearly cost me my marriage and the memory of that far outweighed the memory of the hot sex Claire and I had shared. Our breakup was bad, too. George had found us, terrible words were exchanged, and I'd slunk away to come home to a very tearful and angry wife. Our marriage survived, but barely. And now the specter of that affair was back. It was the last thing I wanted.

I'd not seen Claire, nor exchanged a single word with her, since the moment I'd left her house. I'd wanted to see her again to get some closure but I didn't dare because I didn't want to further antagonize Myra. Saving my marriage was paramount. I'd simply disappeared from Claire's life, and she from mine, and within a few weeks, she'd left town. I hadn't heard a word from her, or about her, since then.

It was doubly difficult for Myra because she and Claire had been best friends, and it made me wince just thinking about it. It was a terrible betrayal on both Claire's and my part, a dark blot on my character I could never erase. I had committed a crime against our marriage that carried an eternal debt to Myra, a debt that could never be repaid. And now after years of burial, it had come back.

I put the photograph back in the bottom of the box and put the box back on the floor of the the guest bedroom closet, way in the back. Like in my mind, way in the back. But I felt it's presence.


A few days later Myra and I were doing our morning, three mile walk/run. We ran a timed minute, walked for exactly 30 seconds, then repeated, until our three miles were finished and we were back at our house. When we'd first started a month previously, I could run no longer than 30 seconds. I was proud of my progress and I freely gave credit to Myra's coaching and her persistence. On my own, I would never have kept at it.

During one of our walk breaks Myra asked, "Would you really give me to Rich for a weekend like you said?"

"Of course not. That was just bad-boy naughty talk. I would never do that. Why, do you think I would?"

"I don't know, but it seemed like you two were serious, like you'd do it if I agreed to it," she replied. I wanted to answer but it was time to run again.

A minute later we were walking again. "I don't think you'd like it, Myra. Rich told me he likes to spank women. And, you know, use handcuffs and leather straps to hold them down. He's done it to police groupies, 'badge bunnies' he called them, woman who get off on that sort of thing."

"NO! You're kidding me, aren't you? Women like that sort of thing, getting tied down and spanked?"

We started running again and I answered. "Yeah, some like it." I took a few more breaths and added, "They like to struggle and feel helpless," I said, catching a few breaths, "to be controlled by a strong man." A few more breaths, then, "That sound like something you'd like?"

Myra didn't answer but I could see she was redder in the face than usual. This pace was hard for me but should be easy for her. Yeah, maybe Myra had been hiding her kinky side.


That night we were lying in bed together, Myra on her back with her legs widely spread, and with me on my right side, facing her. The middle finger of my left hand, slick with coconut oil, was slowly tracing up and down, back and forth, on her puffy outer lips. My pace was slow, controlled, and careful to avoid her clitoris. Occasionally, I slowly but firmly rubbed her entire vulva with my open palm, the pad at the base of my thumb putting firm pressure on her clit, eliciting pelvic thrusting from her, only to return to teasing her lips. Myra's breathing was shallow and quick.

"You were a naughty girl that Sunday when Rich was here. Why'd you do it, Baby?" I asked.

"Naughty? What did I do?" she whispered in breathy gasps.

"You know what you did. You came downstairs in your black silk nightshirt with just that thin white robe covering you. Did you realize you were backlit from the kitchen? We got an eyeful, both Rich and me. Do you know how much you showed us? And you were wearing heels, too. It looked like an invitation to come to bed. Do you suppose Rich thought that was for him, too?" I was stroking more quickly now, applying more pressure and Myra responded in kind, pushing back against my finger and hand.

"NO! He didn't think that! Did he? What did he say?" she panted.

"He said, 'Fuck would I ever like to stay'. I think he saw it as a provocation, an invitation to have sex with you."

"UHH! OHH,! Don't stop, don't stop! Ohhh!" she cried and writhed beneath my hand. I covered her mouth with mine and kissed her deeply as we rode out her orgasm.


After that, each day was punctuated by an undercurrent of sexual tension. Both Rich Williams and Claire Haskell entered our bedroom talk. Nothing was resolved but I took advantage of Myra's heightened sexual arousal to bring up Rich and Claire during our lovemaking.

While she wouldn't admit to it, I was convinced she and Rich had had a brief sexual affair 30 years ago in college when I had been distracted by another girl. Myra and I weren't formally engaged although all our friends saw us as a couple. With my attention diverted, Rich had scooped up Myra in an instant. Even though we were all friends, all's fair in love and war. Rich rightly saw Myra as a neglected ex-girlfriend, back in play. It was my own damn fault but I had come to my senses quickly and won Myra back. I couldn't really blame Rich. We were all young and randy, including the girls.

In retrospect, I suspect Myra had welcomed Rich's attention as a way to get back at me for my brief dalliance. I don't even remember why I had done it. It didn't last long and Myra and I had a tearful reunion with lots of makeup sex. We announced out engagement three months later and married the summer after graduation. Rich and Helen were best man and maid of honor, and the next year Myra and I returned the favor when Rich and Helen married right after he had been commissioned a police officer. I always harbored a secret wish to have had a chance with Helen, but it had never happened. A secret unrequited wish, with perhaps a bit of resentment, too.


The skilled nursing facility was new and very modern. Garden Villas specialized in patients suffering from dementia and it was clean and calm, with an air of concern and professionalism.

We found Helen in the dayroom in a chair, held in by a posey restraint so she couldn't fall out. She was thin and frail. She didn't know us, made only the vaguest responses to our voices, but responded with a firm grip when Myra and I held her hands. We had to assume she knew we were there, but there was no assurance of that. We talked to her and Myra sang to her, which got the biggest response of our visit. Myra brushed her hair and held her hand. It was terribly sad to see her this way. We stayed an hour and left.


I was short of breath and sweating profusely. A heavy bag is a formidable opponent and I was giving it all I had. Claude stopped to watch.

"You've done this before, I see," he said. He was a fireplug of a man with short-cropped grey hair and an air of perpetual annoyance. Everyone said he knew his stuff.

"Yeah," I said, panting, "I did a little boxing back in high school and college."

"Open up your stance a little, keep your elbows in tighter, and drive with your legs. Talk with me before you leave," he said, turning toward his office.

"Dr. Cooper, I presume," I heard a voice say behind me. I turned around to see a big red-headed young man with a grin. He was dressed to box, carrying his gloves.

"Officer Kennedy," I said, extending my gloved right hand. We both looked at it and laughed. Kyle Kennedy took my gloved hand with both his hands and gave it a good long shaking.

"I hear congratulations are in order, Papa," I said.

Kyle kept shaking my hand and simply said, "Yes." He was looking into my eyes and seemed at a loss for words.

He let go of my hand and we looked each other up and down. I could see a well-healed vertical midline incision extending up from the waistband of his trunks, a reminder of his gunshot wound from a year ago.

"Looking pretty good, Doc, I heard you might be coming. Need a sparing partner?"

"I will when I get my sea legs back. Let's do it."

Right then Claude walked by and said, "In this gym you guys are either working or sitting on that bench over there, resting." He kept right on going.

I turned to Kyle and said, "I think I'm going to like it here."


My workout finished, I found Claude in his office.

"Close the door, Doc," he said. He waved at a chair and I took a seat. We talked and discussed my boxing history, my goals, and my time schedule. He nodded and took notes on his iPad. A few seconds later his printer whirred and out came my workouts. Mostly weight lifting and agility training with a little bag work thrown in. I recognized it as a solid plan for a returning boxer.

"You still doing about ten miles a week with your wife?" he asked.

"Yes. How'd you know?" I asked.

"She was in a few days ago with Lt. Williams. Came to talk about you," he said. My ears pricked up at that! Myra hadn't said anything about hanging out with Rich.

"Beautiful lady. She's in good shape, knows about exercise and diet, too. If you don't mind me asking, how'd you let yourself get so out of shape with her cooking for you?" he asked.

Whew! What a question! I couldn't begin to answer it so I looked helplessly back at him.

"Well, we don't have to get into that. Your wife...Myra, is it?...has been preparing good food but you've developed some bad eating habits. So here's your diet plan. It's simple, just do what Myra says. No junk food. Keep up the road miles and get so you can run all three miles without walking. She's your running coach and I'll coach you here at the gym. Kyle said he'd be your sparing partner when the time is right, so we're set."

He paused a moment while I looked over the exercise plan. Then he took out a business card, wrote on it, and handed it to me.

"That's my personal cell phone number. Call me anytime, day or night, if you think you might be tempted to take a drink, and we'll talk. According to what Myra and the lieutenant said, you need a little help with the alcohol. If you think you'd like to try AA, just let me know. We meet at 7 pm every Wednesday night at St. Mary's, in the basement. When you're ready, I'll introduce you and be your sponsor."

Thus began my new avocation as a returning boxer and retread athlete. And I had a new friend.


I'd cut back a little at work, letting the younger guys pick up some call and giving away a few shifts. Nothing like a new mortgage to motivate those young new guys! That evening I went for a solo walk to collect my thoughts.

Myra seemed different. She'd upped her game over the past year which had culminated with her coffee buddy/boyfriend, the disbarred lawyer David Newton, who was now awaited trial in California. But something else was going on, I could sense it. She was at once more ebullient but a little distracted, too, like something was on her mind. She was more engaged in the bedroom, which was good. She initiated sex now, something missing for years in our love life. She was more active, too, telling me what she wanted and climaxing more often. I couldn't be happier but I wondered, why the change in her?

Sure, I'd thumped on my chest and driven away her would-be paramour. Sure, I was trying to quit drinking and I was working on recovering my waistline. But I sensed there was something else, too. And how did Claire figure into this? And, I hesitated to think, my lifelong friend Rich Williams?

I could still see her standing in our kitchen doorway, backlit and showing Rich and me her near-naked silhouette. It seemed innocent enough except for two things. First, a grown woman always knows how she is presenting herself and showing up scantily clad and backlit was a rookie mistake, and Myra was no rookie. And second, she had worn heels, not her usual off-to-bed attire. She'd been fishing, I knew it, but who had she been trying to catch? She'd caught me that night, but had she been trying to snare Rich, as well? It seemed likely.

That evening I retired early. Myra was sitting on the living room couch texting on her phone when I kissed her goodnight. She was sly, but I noticed she hid the screen from me.

"I'll be up soon," she said.

Half an hour later I was nearly asleep when Mya slipped into bed. She was naked.

"Roll on your back," she said. She kneeled between my legs and began a delicate and skillful performance of fellatio. In the dim light I saw that she had pulled her hair back into a pony tail, which meant she had planned this. She was in no rush and in fact seemed to be going deliberately slow.

"This is for you, just enjoy it. I want your cum in my mouth."

I was enjoying her ministrations immensely and she knew it. She continued for many long minutes and just when I thought I was about to turn the corner on the road to ejaculatory inevitability, she stopped and slid up along side me. She kissed me deeply. Her lips felt hot and she tasted salty and musky.

"You like? My jaw is getting tired. I'll go back down in a few minutes. Or would you like to stand up and fuck my mouth?" She knew how to push my buttons.

She reached for her jar of coconut oil and applied a dollop to my cock, then began slowly stroking.

"Don't cum, I want it all in my mouth. But I want to talk to you," she whispered. Her voice sounded harsh and urgent. "Rich texted me tonight. He wants us to come up to the lake house this weekend and stay a few days. I checked your schedule and you're off."

"You know what he wants, don't you?" I replied, enjoying her stroking. I knew I was being played but I was enjoying it, none-the-less.

"I know. I told him no sex and he promised he wouldn't hit on me, wouldn't try to seduce me. You and I'd have our own bedroom although we'd all share a bathroom. You remember how the place is. You could bring your laptop and work on your writing. We could hike the trails, go canoeing, prepare meals together, even go swimming if it warms up enough. You know, jump in the lake and then sun ourselves on the dock." She had thought about this and was obviously enthused.

"No drinking, Myra. I can't drink, I'm trying to stop. I don't want any alcohol up there," I said, and I belatedly realized I had just tacitly agreed to go.

"Rich knows that and said he wouldn't bring any alcohol. But now that it's legal, he wants to us try a little ganja. Just see what it's like, see if it's like back in college," she said.

"Like back in college? Like you and Rich?" I asked. She stopped stroking for a long moment, then began again.

"Okay, you deserve an answer to that. Lord knows I've made you wait long enough. Yes, Rich and I got hot and heavy back then, when you were playing around with that little blondie. Serves you right for fucking her," she said.

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