‘He’s in bed with the lurgy,’ she gabbled by way of explanation. ‘If you believe him he will be lucky to make it through the hour, which is pretty much going to scupper my day off. If you hear bells ringing in the street don’t be alarmed - it will just be me bringing out my dead.’
There was a hint of amusement on his face but still he remained quiet, looking down upon her as a teacher might regard an aimlessly chattering pupil. She knew the colour had gone to her cheeks. Worse, she knew that beneath her thin coat she had on an old grey T-shirt and her tight black tracksuit bottoms, the ones with the two garish pink stripes running down the outside of each leg, which didn’t exactly match her brightly white trainers. It was not how she would have chosen to be seen. She was primed for a Wii Fit workout. Even the need to change clothes once home might have caused procrastination which could easily lead to her postponing exercise in favour of another coffee and some daytime TV. She had to be ready to go or it would never happen. Her exposure to the public eye was only meant to be for two minutes, max. She had no notions of seeing anyone she knew. She had never counted on walking into him.
Despite being embarrassed enough by her attire to want to make a quick escape she was still talking at him, telling him how rough her husband’s bout of illness was, using a little sarcasm here and there to demonstrate that however bad he had it, the patient was still a moaning bastard deserving little sympathy. She wanted to shut up. Something told her that Hunter was above such small-talk, somehow too beautiful to be troubled with such trifles. She tried to deduce why she couldn’t stop chuntering. She tried to remember previous conversations in which, surely, she had managed to say something to him of import. It struck her that this was the first time she had ever been alone with him, face to face. She had spoken nonsense at him before but always in company, when others had been chipping in too, bombarding him with equally useless chatter. In fact, she could only picture him when stoically and politely withstanding a tirade of pointless, half-flirty female prattling. He must be a magnet for it.
Oh, to say something profound now, something to touch this brooding, reserved soul, to unleash the wild passion surely stored inside. Something her own husband would scorn and deride, because he was too crude and oafish and insensitive to be touched by such things. Anything, really, to prove that she was far above that sneering, belittling, underhand man currently plaguing her marital bed. However, nothing came to mind, so instead of some show-stopping proclamation, all she did was tail off mid-sentence with a little exhalation and offer him a silly half-smile that in a roundabout way meant, it’s OK, I’ve finally shut up now. Oh, to not feel vacuous and insignificant in his presence for once. She was clever, witty and pretty, so why couldn’t she just shine? She was amazed at just how unimpressive her attempts to impress always proved. Why couldn’t she just be herself around him?
She had left him the difficult task of bringing this surprise meeting to a conclusion, knowing he’d do well to extricate himself with anything like good grace. The more the silence of her unfinished sentence hung there, the more she expected him to just push past and leave her without adding to the zero words he had so far said to her that morning. A seismic event was required: a car crash outside or a lightning strike, or maybe an escaped lunatic breaking into their midst - something to divert attention and allow this silence to pass. An armed robbery perhaps, with him first protecting her and then taking down the robbers with his bare hands, and then returning to sweep her off her feet and into his bed. Or him as the robber - yes, that would be good. Him suddenly pulling a stocking over his face and revealing a gun, dragging her with him to the counter and fleeing with his booty and her as a hostage, to use and abuse in his hideaway. Why were her thoughts so inevitably turned to rudeness when it came to him? Her daydreams were broken by him unexpectedly addressing her.
‘So, alone and bored downstairs all day while your husband lies upstairs confined to bed?’ he said.
‘Yes, I suppose I will be,’ she replied.
He gave her statement some thought, nodding a couple of times whilst raising his eyebrows in consideration. Then he was off. His parting shot was delivered without him even looking back at her. ‘Sounds like you need rescuing,’ he said.
She stood rooted to the spot as he went to the counter and paid for his milk. If he had glanced in her direction he would have seen he left her with the breath still stuck in her chest. She dallied in the shop to ensure he was out of sight once she made her return home; it would have been too much to trail home twenty yards behind him, trying to avoid catching him up. His last words were still going around her head when she was back in her lounge, fishing inside the TV cabinet for her Wii handset. Pondering upon his meaning helped blot out the intrusion of the hacking cough coming from upstairs.
These words were going to make her obsess, she knew it. They reminded her of that time, way back at his welcoming party, when he had suggestively proclaimed that none of the girls of the street were safe from him. That one line had given rise to a string of fantasies about him, coming now at a rate of two or three each week, seemingly impossible to stop once they had sprung to mind. She was practically a slave to them, having to scuttle off in secret to drive them from her head through climax. He was always so relentless in them, so unstoppable. She knew these fantasies had already stripped away any chance she had of resisting him if he came for her in real life, just as that welcoming party statement seemed to promise he would.
She closed the lounge curtains so that none of her neighbours could catch her prancing about on the spot or doing lunges whist red-faced and sweaty. She managed to complete the workout although her mind was preoccupied with the morning’s chance meeting and the thoughts it inspired. The masked robber idea really was a good one and needed further exploration. This was her now: almost obsessed with rude fantasies and sneaking moments alone to dwell upon them.
She kept her hands to herself as she showered, mindful that her husband could rouse himself from his near-coma at any time and catch her in the act. She needn’t have worried. He was too out of it to even give her his usual list of demands for coffee, breakfast, and such like. She felt sorry for him - she couldn’t help that - but it was nice to have him silenced for once. She slipped into a fresh T-shirt and jogging bottoms, knowing full well housework called. However, any external sleuth would have noticed her failure to don any underwear. They would have noted how easy it would be for her hand to slip inside the elasticated waistband if she failed to keep herself busy with chores.
The hot shower had soothed some of her workout-induced muscle aches but she still decided she had earned a cup of tea and a brief sit down before getting on with things. The TV was showing a live-audience interview with a mother who had called the police because her daughter was a prostitute, even though she had been one herself. The programme host commanded Maria to stay exactly where she was because after the break the daughter would be coming out to face the mother, and a little bit of VT proved this promised lots of finger-pointing and beeped-out swearing. Why did these programmes never feature supposedly happily married women who all of a sudden seem possessed by the need to fantasise and masturbate - perhaps even being forced to by the telepathic powers of a newly arrived, rather luscious neighbour? Maybe then she would find a cure.
Even the thought of him having that power over her sent the heat between her legs and started the itch. Imagine being under that spell - not from some wizened, fat old bastard but by someone as hard and attractive as Hunter. Where just one look meant you had to obey, to let him use you as he wanted without even a word. She should have got up and opened the curtains while she still had some control over herself. As long as they stayed shut the opportunity was there. But her legs felt just a bit too heavy to force her up from the sofa. So the inevitable happened. The mug of tea was placed on the table by the arm of the sofa. Her eyes closed against the raucous slanging match on the TV. Her thighs parted and
her fingers pushed down inside her jogging bottoms.
He would get her when she was outside and vulnerable. A big black 4x4 would suddenly be in her mirrors with lights flashing, and then howling past to slow and stop her. He would be out and on her, ordering her from the car before she could react. The double shock would addle her mind and freeze her reactions: first the stocking over the head distorting the features; second the gun pointing her way. It would be a black pistol, an automatic one. No - not a pistol, but a shotgun, the twin barrels sawn down so it could be held in one hand like some over-long ancient flintlock. There was something very cool about heavy, deadly weaponry being wielded one-handed. All the best action heroes did it, perhaps with a gun in each hand, although he needed to keep one free to drag her out and bundle her onto the back seat of every swanky villain’s first choice of do-baddery vehicle: the black, massively-tyred, top-of-the-range 4x4. With tinted windows all round, of course.
Once she might have taken time to flesh out the details of the journey time but these days she was too impatient to get onto the juicier stuff. All she imagined was his stocking being pulled up as he drove her through deserted country roads, and a glimpse in the rear-view mirror of his eyes, which gave the game away. The motive for her abduction was not explored. Maybe something to do with a debt her husband owed, or payback for one of his underhand stunts. All that was really important was that she was taken to an isolated farmhouse and escape was not on the cards.
She wanted to take time with the build-up but her fingers were moving with even greater urgency than normal, perhaps because she knew she was not alone and that at any moment a call from upstairs might interrupt her. She was stripped and on her knees upon an old mattress, forced to face away from him although his identity had already been ascertained. A cloth had been stuffed in her mouth to stop her from crying out, not that anyone could have heard. In one hand he held her by the hair, pulling her so that she arched backwards, her fingertips only just able to stay in contact with the mattress. In the other hand was the shotgun, the cold hardness of the barrels pressing into her back as he tugged upon her tresses.
His size and strength could have defeated her anyway but for this fantasy the gun was most important. Not because she had a sordid fetish about having one used on her but because it rendered her helpless. It meant that her wifely loyalties couldn’t even be considered. It meant that instantly no blame could be laid at her door. Guilt did not have to be a part of this dream. He didn’t speak. She heard his zip coming down in the silence and she pictured her own wide eyes, waiting the inevitable invasion from behind. She moved her fingers down from where they had been pressing, finding the slickness of her entrance, poised to mirror his entry. She tried to hold back but her lust greedily took over, leaving her gasping out loud as she slid her fingers right in up to the knuckle. Then her dream was broken.
She blinked hard, as if she had just woken in bright sunlight, staring towards the door where the click of the handle had alerted her. There he stood, all in black: a balaclava with holes cut for the eyes and mouth; a thin, tightly fitting roll-neck jumper; plain trousers and shoes. The only visible parts of his anatomy were his hands, a hint of lips behind the mouth-hole, and the eyes. It was the latter that gave him away, so recognisable was he from just these that although the shock had already swept through her body, she didn’t even begin to feel scared.
She had no clue of his arrival until too late. She had been caught - eyes tight shut and hand down trousers, no possible way he could misconstrue what she had been doing. She was frozen, her guilty hand unable to slip back out from the stretched waistband. He remained totally calm, unfazed by how he’d discovered her. His eyes quickly swept the room to ascertain the surroundings. One finger came up to the mouth-hole to instruct her to remain silent. She couldn’t have made a noise anyway. That same finger then pointed up towards the ceiling and she could see the eyebrows rising questioningly. She knew what this sign meant. He was asking if her husband was upstairs. She nodded, hoping this would not deter him, although somehow she already knew it would not.
He stepped across to the coffee table and used the TV remote control to raise the volume a notch. Then he was down on his knees before her, between her spread legs. There was no preamble, nor had she earned one having being caught in such a compromising position, even if she was in the privacy of her own front room. He reached forward and took hold of the waistband either side of her hips and began to drag her jogging bottoms down. She lifted up to help him, already too addled with desire to think of potential dangers. As her nudity was slowly revealed her fingers were finally able to slip from inside her, resting wet and glistening on her thigh, a sign of what a naughty girl she could be when he possessed her mind.
The leggings were pulled completely clear and discarded. She couldn’t even find the modesty to close her legs, giving him a lingering sight of her naked puss before he moved his head downwards. Then he was coming at her as he did in so many of her dreams, rising up as if from the floor, his tongue tracing a line up her inner thigh towards her openness. He stopped to take hold of her hand and lift it just enough to engulf the two wet fingers and suck upon them; such a dirty thing to do but one that had her gasping and squirming against her seat. Then the tongue was at her sex, lapping upwards to part her and release her flow. She could smell her fresh scent rising, her insides hot as they were, mixed with the citrus tones of her shower gel.
He didn’t stay long down there. In truth it would have been too much of a tease and he seemed to know this. She heard his zip come down, just as she had in her fantasy. This time the inevitable would happen without interruption, certainly not from her. Up he came until his eyes were level with hers, his hands staying behind her knees to force her hips forward and her legs from the seat. The more he rose, the higher her legs went, resting now against his shoulders, pressing her back into the sofa and rendering her powerless to move. She wasn’t thinking of making any noise but his hand came down over her mouth and she couldn’t help but squeal with the joy of it.
This was something her husband had stopped doing to her years ago. How could he know she loved this? There was no way she would have let such a secret slip out in front of him. Sure, to her shame, she and probably all of the girls had, during their drunken efforts to flirt with him, let out a few saucy secrets about what floated their boat. They were just little hints to betray a naughtier side, to whet his appetite and give indications that even though they were married it didn’t mean they planned to stay good - even if they did. No way would she have got so drunk and careless to let him know about this little foible, or of her recurring thoughts of being forced by masked men. Yet here he was with his hand clasped tight to her mouth and his own face concealed. He must be able to read minds.
He pressed forward so that she was open and vulnerable and he was looking right into her eyes. The entry was slow and glorious, a smooth electric slide that did not stop until his crotch was at hers and she was filled. He would be able to see the bliss in her wide eyes and feel her shaking beneath him. She managed to suppress her yell into his palm. It struck her that by turning up the TV he had reduced their chances of hearing noises upstairs, of being alerted to any approach. But she knew. She knew he had done it not to cover their sound but to keep her from straining to hear noises upstairs. He had done it to force her concentration onto the moment at hand, and not even think about discovery.
The thrusts were measured and heavy, enough to feel the weight of his slap against her, below her seeping entrance. All the time he held her gaze, his eyes alive and full of intent, hunger even. He was as deep as anyone had ever been inside her, his curve allowing him to reach that spot inside her, so that all the time the delicious current seemed to be flowing through her body, making her shake and clench upon him. Although there was only a single flight of stairs between them and discovery he would not rush. He just kept the same pace, hard and deep, as if he planned to go on
forever.
She tried to keep her eyes open but in the end the waves of bliss became too great and she had to close them. He took that as his cue, speeding up to a final burst, forcing her pleasure to an even higher plane before finishing hot inside her. He stayed buried but still she was too overcome to open her eyes. She sat exhausted and euphoric as he waited until he could slip from her and ease down her aching legs. There wasn’t going to be any kisses or cuddles or conspiratorial giggles because in her fantasies there never was, and he seemed to know her private thoughts just as well as she did. He would just leave as silently as he arrived, the masked stranger who took her and fucked her deliciously without scruple, giving her all the rapture she once thought her husband would provide. She sat there, eyes closed and smiling, still naked from the waist down, her fingers stroking between her thighs, barely caring that her husband might find her this way. It took her the rest of the morning to rouse herself, and when she did she thought she must have imagined the whole unbelievable episode.
Content
Some might have been driven up the wall by the lack of follow-up to such an event. Shelley actually found it somehow comforting, exciting even. Yes, everybody wants that confirmation that it meant something, that it was good - that you were good - but just the briefest mention of it would enforce the reality, and that would bring the guilt crashing home. He had seen her a couple of times since, just fleetingly, but had acted as if nothing had happened. No hushed asides, no conspiratorial winks or knowing smiles, no nothing. He just behaved exactly as he had done before: good-humoured; chivalrous; slightly reserved. It had even made her think that it couldn’t have been him that came to her after all, even though it most surely was. Or that it couldn’t have happened at all, even though it must have done. However, just that slight doubt kept it more as an imagined fantasy rather than a reality, and that was fine by her.
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