Prologue

 

Harry's alarm went off at 6.00 in the morning and he switched it off swiftly so as not to disturb his sleeping wife and rose from the floor at the foot of her bed where he had spent the night. Gathering up his pillow and blanket he quickly made his way to the guest-room that was now his and showered in its small en-suite they had only recently had installed. Then, changed into the shorts and tee-shirt Terry insisted he wear about the house, it was to the kitchen to prepare her breakfast before she took off for work.

There was a note on the kitchen counter with instructions and not for the first time he wondered why she just tell him what she wanted rather than leaving it in a note as if her some kind of flunky to her.

It was not for the first time, either, that he realised it was exactly how she now saw him and he had nobody to blame but himself.

"Tonight's Friday and I'll not be home until very late. I've left a list of the chores that require attention on your to-do-list on the fridge."

This was becoming more and more, typical behaviour and what had started out on his part as a means of showing her how much he loved her and what she would lose if she continued seeing the other man she had thought he was in the dark about, was becoming something far deeper, disturbing and, worse still, addictive. She rarely engaged him in conversation these days and, though she managed a normal front before friends and family - and especially when one or both of their two daughters were home from university, the normality lasted only until friend, family or guest left the house. Rather than become appreciative of how he bent over backwards to make her life wonderful, she seemed more contemptuous of him by the hour.

It had not been the result he had expected when he took the approach he thought would best save his marriage but he knew he wasn't quite ready to allow the guillotine to drop just yet.

And, as said, there was something highly perverse and addictive about the way the situation had developed and, though he marvelled at his response to the submission he had gradually gifted to her, he was honest enough to admit the base and unworthy pleasure an unsuspected facet of his personal make-up took from it.

After a day's work at the computer and a desultory meal he had cooked himself, he started to set about the "chores" she had set him that were such a stereotypical component of the kind of lifestyle they shared with each other these days.

Vacuum, dust and polish.

Kitchen floor and surfaces.

Bathrooms and toilets.

Change bed-linen.

Hand-washing.

Shamed by his response but unable to prevent it, Harry felt his cock swell against the confines of yet another stereotypical component of their new wife-led relationship and marvelled at how so demeaning a prospect as hand-washing his own wife's smalls could see him trying to come erect in his cage.

He also knew he was in for another painful time as the scent of her hose and panties supplied him a painful reminder of what was now denied him until she decided otherwise.

"Did you have a good time, Terry?" he asked later that night when she returned home, looking tired yet vibrant from what she insisted was her regular Friday with 'the girls' and he knew was something entirely different.

As always, she looked and smelled as if she had just stepped out of a shower and he knew the simple reason behind her looking as fresh as she had looked when she left for work that morning in the same heels, pantyhose and flatteringly cut two-piece skirt and jacket was the fact she was freshly showered and bathed.

She gave him a smile and he sensed her mood was good as her gaze took in the spotlessly clean and tidy house he had laboured on while she was out.

The fact that he made a point not to question her on what she had done and who with yet another factor in her sense of well-being and, he knew, yet another brick in the wall of her growing contempt for him.

"Very nice, Harry" she said with tone a great lady might use for a servant who had been in her service for a number of years and for whom she had a certain fondness. Did you finish all your chores?"

"All done, ma'am," he said jokily, addressing her that way for the first time and not happy to have done so when he saw how her face lit up at what he had intended to be no more than a jest.

"Ma'am, eh? Hmmm, I like it."

He gave her a tentative smile and was amazed at the strength of the erection she could win from him these days as she stood before him freshly fucked and entitled.

Not that she suspected he knew, of course.

"Did you enjoy sleeping with me last night?" she asked, referring to how he had taken her up on the offer to sleep at the foot of what had previously been their marital bed as if he were of no more account than a family pet.

"I... I'd rather have been in the bed with you Terry, you know that, but... Well, until you're ready it was the next best thing."

She moved closer to him and laid her hand on his chest, expression unreadable.

"I'm not tired and I thought I might have a read," she told him. "While I'm getting ready for bed why don't you get me a glass of wine and bring it into me."

It wasn't phrased as a request and Harry immediately turned to do as she ordered.

Only for her to call him back.

When he turned to face her he was amazed to see his wife's blue eyes moist with the beginning of tears.

"Harry, I know I've been difficult to live with lately and... and it's not been easy for you, but..."

He waited, heart in his mouth, the contempt to which he was becoming more and more resigned absent from her face now as she stared at him with undisguised love.

Were his efforts paying off?

Was the love of his life he had refused to give up on, despite everything, coming back to him?

Not quite yet would be his answer:

"...but just because things are a little different between us it doesn't mean I don't love you every bit as much as I did when we first met."

And still he waited as her eyes held his and he could see her fortifying herself in order to say what was on her mind, despite the fact he had pretty much, albeit gradually, ceded the role of head-of-the-household to her months before.

"Do you still feel that way about me, Harry?" she asked.

He was in her arms instantly at this first sign of real affection she had shown him in weeks.

"Terry, why do you think I'm still here? You're right, it hasn't been easy for me but... I stay because I need you to see how committed I am to our marriage; no matter the fact it's going through a bad patch. Not to be with you would kill me."

She allowed him to place a kiss upon her forehead and he luxuriated in this first real contact of a man and wife kind in what seemed like forever.

Extricating herself from his embrace, she took his hands in hers and took a small step back that she might look up into his eyes.

"Harry, I want to believe you but..."

"But, what, Terry? I love you so much it pains me. Surely you don't doubt it? Why else would I...? Would I do what I offered to do for you?"

"It's not your love I've ever doubted, Harry, but this... 'Commitment'... you just mentioned.

"You...? You don't' think I'm committed to you?" he asked, thoughts raging on the hypocrisy of a wife who could have just returned home to him after having allowed herself to be penetrated by a man not worthy to lace his trainers, and accuse him of lacking commitment.

It was, however, not the time to tell her he knew what she did each Friday and on those other occasions when she was late from school and would undo all the, admittedly unorthodox, work he had put in to keep their marriage at least intact until it could be returned to something approaching its original form.

If that was possible.

"Tell me, Harry," she said retaining her hold of his hands while staring into his eyes unblinkingly, tears not so imminent now and replaced by a look of... resolve. "How many times in the years we've been together have you offered to please me with your tongue?"

He felt as if she had kicked him in the stomach, the answer to his wife's question not requiring a degree in calculus.

"But...? I thought you didn't like to...?"

"And why would you have thought that?" she asked, the tightness of her grip betraying her absorption.

"Well..."

"When did I tell you I didn't like having a tongue worship my pussy the way it deserves to be worshipped? The way you often ask me to worship your cock with my mouth?"

"You... You didn't... Not in so many words, but..."

"But nothing, Harry. All these years you were perfectly willing to accept oral sex from me but not once did you offer to reciprocate."

"Terry, my love," he began, trying to pull her into an embrace and finding his efforts resisted. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Why should I have needed to?" was her instant retort.

"I... I had no idea that was what you wanted. I'm sorry. All you had to do was ask."

She was suddenly angry and released his hands to place her own upon her hips, hosed legs planted apart and making her look both fierce and imperious as her eyes blazed into his.

"Well I'm glad you feel that way," she told him, "because if we're going to stay married to each other your tongue is going to start making up for lost time. Starting right now."

He looked at her with horror. Harry was a fastidious man for whom the idea of oral sex had never appealed - at least when it came to giving. Now here was his wife - the wife he was trying to win back - telling him that their marriage was at risk if he didn't place his tongue at the same slit from which she pissed and...

Her voice cut through his thoughts:

"I'm going to my bed, Harry, and when you fetch me my wine I don't want to hear a word from you. Just place it next to me and allow me to get on with my book."

Harry waited, feeling a little sick as he knew she wasn't finished.

"Then, while I'm reading, you're going to crawl under the sheets and lick my pussy until I tell you to stop."

Terry turned on her heel and made for the stairs, but stopped at the foot of them to face her shell-shocked husband:

"I do not expect you to be very good this first time and you might as well know I won't be unlocking you to return the compliment with either mouth or hand," she told him.

Then, contempt kicking in once again:

"But, if I think you've made a genuine effort to try and make up for all the years of neglect to now, I'll let you sleep with me again."

Distaste for what she was asking of him or not, the prospect of again occupying the bed they had always shared together and spooning with her in the way of old filled him both longing and hope.

Neither would survive her next words before she turned with total confidence and made her way upstairs:

"I enjoyed having you with me last night, so fetch yourself a pillow and a blanket and you can sleep on the floor at the foot of the bed again."

 

Chapter One

 

First things first.

My name's Harry Madron and yes, I know, I sound like an LA detective from one of those old seventies NBC and CBS productions from across the pond.

The truth, however, is a deal more prosaic and I could barely be further away from a "Quincy" or "Baretta" or "Rockford" type with an incident filled past and a trailer-home at Paradise Cove.

Though life has become a little more... interesting... recently.

You see, and for those of you who haven't guessed, I'm the Harry of the prologue and at the time of writing I', about as confused, angry and anguished, as I ever expected to be or wish to be in the future.

I live just outside London, I'm fifty-three, and twenty-one years married with two grown up daughters who are no longer at home and are studying at separate universities in the north of the country. I work out of the house that's now bought and paid for as a freelance and very part-time copywriter. A transition I made with the support of my wife after having taken an early retirement package from the London agency where I'd spent my whole working life.

Physically I'm in decent shape but certainly no muscle freak. I weigh-in at 11lbs more than I did when I was married and Terry - short for Theresa - assures me I'm as handsome now as I was then and she loves the silver streaking my still full head of dark hair.

Nice to hear but carrying less in the way of cache than it used to when...

Excuse me. I'm racing when I need to be considered. I'm the one telling this story so you'll only be getting the one side of it. The least I can do is be analytical and fair to the others involved so that you can pretty much make your own mind up on the subject. Though I have to say, "fair" is about the last thing I feel like being after...

Excuse me once again.

Anyway, as I was about to say, I'm not in bad shape even if I eschew the efforts I see a lot of men my age putting in at the gym and elsewhere to try and hold back time's inexorable tide. Go with what you've got and compensate. A heart attack trying to pump iron doesn't make much appeal to me, so that's why I walk, mostly with the son of some neighbours who live in the same cul-de-sac as us in the buzzy Kent village of Westerham. Chris is a shy but really bright kid who flunked out of university at about the same time my daughters went in and, at twenty-four, works out of Gayle and Brian's house designing software for computer-games rather than commit to the nine-to-five and the commuter run.

I mention this because Chris and his nous when it came to the computer and other technical issues are instrumental in my story.

Suffice to say that we both enjoyed recharging our batteries away from the computer with a daily walk around Westerham and it wasn't long before we started doing it in each other's company. Chris is a bit of a loner and I'd yet to see him with a girlfriend, so I got the feeling he enjoyed my company and looked forward to our walks and talks. Even more when we started rounding them off with a glass or two in one of the village bars or licensed cafes to people-watch the tourists who flocked to the birthplace of General Wolfe or stopped off after visiting Churchill's former home just up the road at Chartwell.

And yes, you guess correctly:

It was rarely men we people watched.

Normal stuff and life was pretty good.

No harm in looking, after all, is there?

So long as that's all you do.

Then again, I wouldn't be writing this now if the woman I loved so much it was painful had heeded that advice and...

Yes.

I know.

I'll calm down.

So now we come to Terry.

She was only a year out of teacher-training college when we met at a party and I pretty much fell in love with her from the moment she put the moves on me.

That's right. She chased me at that party and by the time we were sharing our second drink out in the garden the ten-year age difference between us was of no account to me. She was smart and quick to humour, with an inclusive laugh and vivid blue eyes below short black hair that could do nothing to hide the depth of her interest. She was no supermodel and that made her all the more attractive to me. Her hourglass figure and womanly curves, even at the age of twenty-three, really hit the spot with me, even if - and despite my only part-deserved reputation at the time for being something of a lady's man and a beast between the sheets - when we finally got it together physically it felt nothing like the "fucking" I'd experienced prior to meeting her.

Though sexual attraction was obvious, immediate and enduring, I knew what Terry and I did when we had sex was not simply "fucking" but "lovemaking".

Pure, simple, and delightful.

That difference being a big factor in what was to come.