"Afterward"



This is a story of cheating, and of sex between husband and wife. It
includes oral sex.

A version of it appeared first at "Ruthie's Club";
(http://ruthiesclub.com/) where the formatted and illustrated version
can be found.

I enjoy corresponding with readers and writers. If you'd like to
criticize, praise, or chat, write to: h_jekyll2000@yahoo.com.

The Henry Jekyll stories are archived at Ruthie's Club and at: 
http://www.asstr.org/files/Authors/h_jekyll/. 

"Afterward" is copyrighted, 2003.

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It was the first time. No, not the first time. She wants to be
accurate. It was the first time after they knew they were going to
have an affair instead of just an encounter. Long afterward, it
remains in place for her, not as narrative, not as full sentences. No,
it remains as images and fragments of scenes and isolated words. Was
it worth it? It cost her so much.

At least there are memories. She still has them. Such as? Such as how
she told her husband she was ill and would stay home from work. Not
badly ill, no dear, just a little indisposed and headachy. You know.
No, I don't need to see the doctor. I'll call you later.

She remembers light. The sun rising to an almost cloudless sky,
shining pink light, then white, on the house, light that flitted into
the interior and reflected off furniture and glass knick-knacks, that
filtered into her shower while she prepared herself for her lover.
There's an image, as if she's looking over her shoulder as she washes
her body, washes her vagina especially carefully, then dries herself
in front of the mirror with a massive ivory-colored towel. She had
inspected herself, shaking her head while she did it. I always shake
my head when I look at myself, don't I? Why do they like how I look?

She'd opened a bottle of cologne and rubbed cologne onto her vaginal
lips, rubbed it thoroughly, even made herself wet. Wait! She'd made
herself stop, taken a breath, and finally gone on to her nipples and
underarms and behind her ears.

Brightness. Yes, the sun in the window behind her was so bright she'd
had to lower the blinds to view herself.

8:00 a.m. Time to open the garage door so he could drive right in. She
actually doesn't remember opening the door. How had he gotten this
time free? She never knew, never asked him, and it didn't really
matter, did it?

She remembers rushing about the house in only her light, silk robe,
the red, patterned one that shows her pubic hair if she leaves it
untied, but covers her nipples. She still has that robe. After
everything, she couldn't stand the thought of throwing it away.

Does she remember hearing the car in the garage? Or running down the
stairs so that the robe opened entirely in her breeze, her pale,
dancer's body contrasting with the robe as she opened the door to the
garage and called out: "Darling!"

The garage door was still open. What if someone had been walking a
dog?

She sometimes wonders what he remembers, if he plays back the sight of
her in the doorway, her body, the robe masking so little, the sound of
her "darling." Does he miss her? Then: going together up the stairs,
kissing and feeling her, lifting her and carrying her to the bed.
Sucking on each other's tongue, pulling down his pants, playing with
his penis.

She especially remembers playing with his penis. It was so different
from her husband's, the only other one she'd really known. He would
lie quietly and watch, while she caressed it, tickling his balls and
his shaft, loving the way it contracted and moved under her hands. She
would take the head in her mouth and lick around the ridge and suck,
while her hands played. She wanted to taste him and keep his taste
with her for afterwards. She'd sit back on her ankles and play with
his balls and inner thighs, tickling both so that he had to work not
to squirm. There was no hurry.

His eyes were mostly closed by now and she recalls his sharp breaths.
She had lovely views of him pulling his head back, the muscles and
tendons of his neck standing out against the skin. She misses that. It
seems to be the worst thing, missing that. It comes up out of the
blue.

This large, white, upstairs bedroom, the one she still lives in, made
for something like worship. Three windows rise from the floor almost
to the ceiling, with half-moon tops, so light floods in. She'd always
made love in a twilight world, but he wanted every part of her
illuminated. The blinds were completely open and someone could have
spied on them, had someone been standing behind just the right window.
They could occasionally even have been seen from the street. The spy
would have seen the two wrestle among twisted bedclothes, kneel over
each other, pleasure each other. Maybe she'd rummage to find
binoculars, the ones her family used for bird-watching, and spend the
morning trying to see more, watching them while she pleasured herself,
making herself exquisitely horny, planning how she would seduce her
husband when he got home.

 From those windows the couple could see the trees and houses and the
sky, the sun dropping light like fairy dust across the landscape.

There's a long part that only she could remember because he never knew
it at all. Five minutes after he left. Maybe only three. In any event
before she'd had time to bathe. How she heard the car reenter the
garage and knew instantly that he couldn't leave her, how she'd
grabbed her robe and flown down the stairs, so smitten with this
impetuous man who couldn't leave her alone, running to the door to the
garage, throwing it open, crying "Darling, you're back!"

There was her husband's car, her husband half out of the car, his eyes
showing disbelief at her.

"What... what are you doing? And why is the garage door open?"

The first time to be nearly caught by a spouse. Ah, she remembers
that! It's her sharpest memory, so strong it still makes her stomach
drop.

She had almost pulled the robe closed, which would have given
everything away, but had stayed her hands just in time. "Oh, I was
just feeling so much better, and it's sweet of you to come home early
for me."

She had waited for him to close the garage door, then stepped down
into the garage to kiss him.

Would he smell sex on her, or cologne? His arm had gone around her
waist, drawing her close, trapping her but not knowing it was a trap.
He had kissed her, his tongue gliding across her tongue, the one that
had just moments before caressed her lover's penis, that could still
taste him. Then he'd pushed open the robe to caress a nipple, somehow
missing her lover's tiny red bite mark. She remembers how she had
pushed him back and looked up into his face, making the sweetest look
she could manage, and had said, "Let me get myself ready. I'll only be
a second."

That was a lie, of course. She'd stayed as long as she could in the
bathroom, washing off the cologne at the sink and trying to get rid of
all signs of semen, hoping there wasn't still more that would seep out
during foreplay, because so much must still be inside her. She knew
she could play act at fucking, fake an orgasm.

When she'd come into the bedroom he was naked on the bed, laying there
on his back with his arms crossed under his head, his penis up and
ready. She'd known what he wanted her to do.

Remember. Bring it back. Try to bring back the details of the time
before it all crashed.

At that moment she'd moved as in a dream, wanting to feel that it
wasn't really her, knelt by him and kissed, not wanting to do it. Now
the dream is all that's left. I open my mouth to take his tongue. He
pushes it deeply and I suck it like a penis. I take his real penis in
my hand, touching it, brushing fingers along it from his balls up to
the head, lightly over the head, stroking it over and over.

His erection. She couldn't help contrasting it with her lover's. She'd
wanted to separate herself from the action, to get it over with, but
she was still aroused and there was this penis in her hand, so she
felt that stirring while she sucked his tongue and stroked him.

No, no, not this. Please not this. By now she both wanted him to fuck
her and didn't.

Then, when he'd pushed two fingers into her and begun masturbating
her, she'd grown wetter and slipperier than she already was. Sloppy
seconds, she thought. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! He'll be able to tell!
But he couldn't.

She'd panted into his mouth during their kisses. He tasted different
than her lover, and this difference made everything nastier, so she'd
gotten higher. He'd moved her over, to lie down, and had crawled
between her legs and begun licking and sucking her vagina, swallowing
everything. God no! Don't do that! It's so dirty!

She'd exploded.

She remembers how much she'd wanted it then, so that she was growling
and pushing her sex up at him, and when he finally began to fuck she
fucked harder and faster to get it, growling more and panting with her
husband. The orgasm had gathered itself and then had broken free,
flowing through her like electricity. She'd come without needing the
vibrator, right after he'd begun to come. It was the best sex they'd
had in a long time.

For several minutes she'd lain under him, separated only by their
sweat, both of them breathing hard, their breath slowing, gentling.
Then they'd kissed some more and talked affectionately, and finally
he'd dozed off. She was left with the terrible knowledge that she'd
fucked her husband -- and reveled in it -- so soon after her lover had
left. She felt she'd betrayed him. But to this day the memory turns
her on.

She lay beside him, seepage tickling her, wondering how much came from
which man.