Sebastian - Secrets (2 page)

“I’m… err,
sorry you must have the wrong person.” I stutter, blushing hotly.  “I’m waiting for my husband.” It’s lame and transparent, but self-preservation and humiliation extinguish any care I have about the man’s feelings.

“It’s Rosie, isn’t it?” The pseudonym I created for my illicit profile.  The one sensible thing I did was not to put my real name online and I am thankful for that now.

“No, I’m… Tracy.  I have one of those faces that looks like everyone else’s, easily done, don’t worry.” I say less than convincingly.

 
“Oh bugger.  Ok, sorry about that.  You sure do look like the bird I’m meant to be meeting. Nice kiss by the way! See ya.” 

The dejected little man ambles in to Starbucks in the futile search of Rosie
.

“Yeh right.   ‘S
ee ya’ in your dreams.  Little twerp,” I mumble as I make a hasty exit through the store.  I’m devastated.

Back at the office, Ruth is in a meeting enabling me to slip dejectedly back, in to my safe space undisturbed.  I close
the door and fire up my laptop.  I call up the uniform dating web page and log in to my profile, hastily deleting John.  I’m about to delete my profile when I notice a message from Firefighter69.  Reluctantly I open the message.

Rosie, you winked at me.  I know what you want and I can give it to you.  You need a strong, dominant man who takes the lead in bed.  I am your man.  You are my woman.  Message me back.
Si x

My alter ego perks up but my inner conscience screams “delete.” Unfortunately my inner conscience is no match for my alter ego and so begins the next chapter in my illicit journey.

By five o’clock I have reve
lled in a sordid dialogue with fire fighter Simon, spanning instant messages and mobile phone; all notions of my security disregarded. Having seen a photograph of Simon in his fire fighter uniform at least I know he genuinely is attractive.  Not necessarily my type, with boyish good looks, but definitely most shaggable.  I now look forward with eager anticipation to a sexual encounter with him on Thursday at one o’clock at the Value Inn near Bristol.  The eroticism of meeting for sex is unbearable, the ache in my groin is longing for remedy.  I’ve never felt so desperate for sexual gratification in my entire life.  Perhaps because my body knows it lies just three short days away.

I’
m restless. The children are home thanks to my mother who often collects Joe from school for me, Bella takes the bus.  Alan will be arriving home with fast food for himself and the children, as is our custom on a Monday night so I have no rush to get home.  

Ruth insists I go with her for an after work drink at our favo
urite pub, The Crooked Man.  I know that my dear friend will subject me to an interrogation about my mysterious lunch appointment but nothing can dampen my spirits.  I’m wanted and desired by a real man for the first time in years and it feels incredible!

Retrieving
my coat from the back of my chair, I wrap a warm grey scarf around my neck and together we leave the office and walk across the road to the pub.  Our favourite corner table is available, and Ruth sits down while I go to the bar to order our drinks.  I join Ruth at our table, carefully placing the gin and tonics on the mats provided, unwrap my scarf and, removing my coat, we enjoy the warmth of the smouldering log fire next to us.

“Ok, I want to know exactly what you’ve been up to.” Insists Ruth.  “Blow by blow – no pun intended.” She cocks her eyebrow in a way that implies only the full truth will suffice.

“Not much to tell
” I say.  “I went to meet a friend but they stood me up.”  Ruth rolls her eyes in disbelief, a cynical smirk playing across her lips.

“Jesus,
Ruth.  What kind of woman do you think I am?” I say with a mischievous glint in my eye.

She is not buying my story so I divert the conversation to sex
, in the hope that I shock her into distraction. 

“
Here’s one for you.  Have you heard of vanilla sex?” I ask. 

“Christ Beth!” splutters Ruth
, choking on her Bacardi and coke. “I’m not that naive.  It’s where the man smears ice cream on the woman.  The things you come out with!”

I love Ruth, she always thinks she knows it all and is disgruntled when proven otherwise. 
Shaking my head at her ignorance, she rolls her eyes once more.

“Vanilla sex
,” I inform her, “is straight boring sex whereas did you know, some men like to dominate women and tie them up!”  I just want to gauge her reaction, not to give her too much information.

Ruth’s eyes widen, as I know they would, I so love to be controversial.  Ruth can’t resist then g
iving me a lecture about how I’m setting women back one hundred years by even paying lip service to such matters. I declare that what happens between consenting adults, is perfectly acceptable, and a lively debate ensues for the next ten minutes.

“What’s this all about Beth love?
  Is everything alright with you and Alan?” Ruth sits forward in her chair, her hand resting on my knee, a look of anxiety apparent on her face.

“I want more Ruth.  I’m just so tired of my life.  I kn
ow I’ve lots to be grateful for - Alan, the house, healthy kids, good job.  I just want more.”

“We all feel like that sometimes, Beth.  It’s your age.  You’re nearly forty and the hormones are rampant and it makes us feel dissatisfied.  Honestly, there are many worse off than you.” 

My friend is well intentioned but her words do not temper the emptiness I feel.  Ruth has been divorced from Ed for four years and lives contentedly alone.  She lives for her work and never seems to complain about her lot, nor does she seem lonely.  I envy her peace of mind.

“I want to feel needed.  Wanted.  To meet someone who will command me and protect me.  Make decisions for me
, and not put up with my crap.  I want hot torrid sex, Ruth.  I am sick of sharing a bed with a man who abhors touching me.  I’ve been thinking about leave Alan.”

Ruth is shocked.  “I had no idea things were that bad,” she says anxiously.

“Have been for years Ruth.  I just don’t talk about it.  I just presumed it was me.  But, the more I look into it I see that other couples don’t live like us.  It’s not normal, Ruth.  He’s not normal.  I want what other people have.”

“It’s a fallacy.” Ruth retorts.  “All marriages are the same eventually.  It’s all sex and candles until children come along and then couples settle down.  Just buy yourself a raunch
y book, a new vibrator and fantasise, girl.” 

“That’s just it Ruth.  I’m not prepared to settle for that any more.  I’m nearly forty, if I don’t change my life now, no man will want me.  My clock is ticking Ruth.  Wrinkles are appearing every day and before long I’ll be too arthritic or senile to recognize a cock, let alone be able to do anything with it.”  We both break into a laughing fit and it is cathartic.

It’s been a long and tiring day and as I pull into the drive of our neat suburban house, I’m looking forward to an early night with my book and a glass of red wine.

Alan, as usual, is sitting in his favourite chair in front of the television watching a sci-fi documentary he has recorded on the TV hard drive. 

Our evening together looks set
to continue its usual routine.  I’ll put Joe to bed, Bella will grudgingly do her homework and then disappear to her room for the evening to chat online with her friends.  Alan and I will barely talk.  He will retire to bed at ten o’clock and leave me working on my iPad or watching television.  He will be comatose when I turn in and I will lie awake until the early hours of the morning, feeling frustrated and bitter.  No sex.  I do wonder, night after night, if I’m so unattractive and undesirable that even Alan, who’s no Adonis, doesn’t want me.  Simon wants me and soon he’ll have me, I remind myself.

My regular source of orgasmic satisfaction is provided by the contents of my hidden toy box.  My favo
ured toy of the moment is my neon pink Rampant Rabbit.  With seven functions it is apparently “perfect for the rampant connoisseur!”  I guess that describes me.  It does make me feel seedy using my toys in private but a girl has needs.  Usually my rabbit accompanies me to the toilet, as that is the only room in which I have privacy.  Recently I treated myself to a tiny vibrator the size and shape of a lipstick and this has perked up many a boring day at the office.

Alan and I have had many arguments about sex.  I would never divulge to anyone, even Ruth, that we’ve only made love three times in five years. I think it must be me - I must be detestable. 
Simon doesn’t think so.

My self-esteem is at its
lowest ebb despite constant reassurance from my mother and others that I’m an attractive woman.  I’m tall and have long wavy blonde hair and, although I have the remnants of a baby belly I’m not otherwise overweight.  I consider my facial features to be acceptable and unlikely to turn milk sour, and I receive compliments on my cornflower blue eyes.  Yet clearly there is something lacking in my persona, which would otherwise make me desirable.

I’ve pleaded with Alan to agree to counse
lling or sex therapy sessions but he says that he won’t discuss our private business with strangers.  He says ‘he is who he is’ and tells me that all married couples are the same.  He blames my literary choices and movies for putting unrealistic ideas in my head. 

“Those books you read and films you watch are pure fantasy,” he rebukes. 

I disagree.  My books are indeed my escape but I deeply yearn for everything I read to happen to me.  I know that not all couples are like Alan and I.  This is why I began looking at the Internet late at night and at work, I know that web sites exist, solely centred on pleasure.   Uniform Dating is only one such site.  I have visited others, and am becoming increasingly curious about BDSM.  This is truly tapping into the darker side of my persona and I only browse those pages after a glass or two of wine, when my inhibitions are lessened. Oh why can’t it be
me
receiving the lashing from the leather belt? 

“Have you had a good day?” I ask, sitting down with a
large glass of Claret, having settled Joe in bed and helped him with his homework.

“Same as usual.  You?”  He sips whisky from his favourite tumbler, not averting his eyes from the television as he talks to me.

“Same as usual.  What take-away did you get?”

“Burger and chips.  I was going to get Chinese but I noticed last time, they’ve put their prices up – bloody ten pence on the rice.  Can you believe that?”

Ten pence? 
Who cares, you tight sod?
  “Daylight robbery if you ask me,” I reply caustically.

“How was work today?”  I try to kindle the conversation, partly through guilt at my attempted in
fidelity today.  Alan has worked for the same company, Best Business Solutions, for approaching twenty years showing no ambition, nor desire for promotion, instead he says he is happy to have a secure job in today’s volatile workplace.   This conjecture would be credible if he didn’t always complain about his job and colleagues.  IT, he tells me repeatedly, is for younger men nowadays, graduates ‘who aren’t even old enough to shave,’ snapping at his heels leading to insecurity, fuelled by his employer, Gerrard, who forever reminds Alan how highly trained and keen the younger generation are.  He tells me that the only thing that keeps him sane is working with his best friend, our Best Man, Mike.  We’ve talked about trying to pair Mike up with Ruth but Alan says Ruth would eat Mike alive and spit him out.  He misjudges Ruth but he won’t change his mind and anyway, Mike isn’t Ruth’s type.  He has a low opinion of women borne through bitterness since his wife, Patsy, ran off with her personal trainer taking their son with them.

“Work was shit as usual,” he grumbles.  “Gerrard wants me to go on a bloody course.  I told him not to waste his money, no bloody course is going to make me better at my job, but he said if I don’t keep up with the new software then he’ll find a younger bloke who will.”

“I’ve got my course coming up this weekend, don’t forget,” I remind him.  “Well, not actually a course but a team building thing for business women.  The thought of it fills me with horror too, but we have to do these things, Alan.  We have to keep abreast of change or fall behind and be trampled on.”

“Yeh.  Whatever.”  He drains his glass and burps. 

“Charming.”

“Better out than in,
heard about a bloke that died once from trapped wind,” he burps again and turns up the volume on the television, and so ends our conversation.

2

It’s finally Thursday.  The time is twelve fifty and I’m inside the Value Inn, waiting for a lift car to take me to the third floor, room 311 where my delectable fire fighter Simon awaits. 

I don’t think I have ever felt so sexually charged, my new lace panties are damp with my arousa
l and my heart is pounding.  I’m wearing a long navy woollen coat, which reaches to the tops of my black knee length boots.  Beneath the respectable woollen façade a scandalously short gold vest dress clings to my curves and allows my breasts to spill forth almost to the nipples.  Lace topped stockings are suspended from my newly purchased black suspender belt and garters.  I feel like a whore.  I am a whore.  My entire ensemble was hastily purchased yesterday and kept secreted away in carrier bags in the boot of my car.  Changing at work had been a challenge but I succeeded in racing from the office to my car without being seen, and here I am now – squirming and tugging down the hem of my dress from beneath the flaps of my coat, my work clothes folded neatly on top on my sensible shoes in a small navy holdall at my feet.