While My Wife's Away

by James Lear

  Well, Pascal wasn’t going to make that mistake by the look of things. He’d started moving up and down on my prick, using his huge thigh muscles to lift and lower himself; I know from doing squats in the gym that small movements like that are hard, even without a bar on your shoulders. Even Pascal was sweating. I let him do the work. My cock was just up there for him to explore. As long as I stayed hard, he could more or less fuck himself.

  There comes a point, however, when a first-time fuck needs to progress from exploration to execution, when the bottom needs to surrender control. This was what Graham did for me, and I was determined to do it for Pascal. I let him ride me for a long time, loving the sight of his muscular body rippling and straining as he worked his internal organs around my dick. He was so in the zone, eyes half closed, lips parted, a continuous groan rising and falling with each thrust, that he could easily work himself to an orgasm that I was not ready to permit him.

  As soon as I slipped out of his arse—and it happens regularly, even with the most coordinated fuck—I moved out from underneath him, stood up, and shed my clothes.

  ‘Up there.’ I clicked my fingers and pointed to the bed. ‘On your knees.’

  This was it—I was going to fuck another person in the marital bed. No going back now, Heath. Bridges burnt. Did it bother me? Not a bit. All I could think about was Pascal’s hole, wet and shiny with lube, twitching open and closed as he crouched on all fours, pushing himself toward me. I climbed up behind him, took hold of his hips and pushed in, the whole length of my hard prick slamming into him. He gave a despairing groan, rested his head on his forearms, and braced himself for the onslaught. He knew what was coming, and he wanted it as much as I did.

  I fucked that boy hard, pulling him into every thrust, picking up the pace until I could go no faster, and he matched me blow for blow, opening himself up, spreading his legs wider, taking every last bit of cock I had and wanting more. It couldn’t last for long, this friction, this ferocity; the only question was which of us would come first.

  I saw Pascal’s hand working around to his cock, saw his arm moving, and from the rippling of his guts, I knew the end was nigh. No point in either of us holding back now. I slammed into him recklessly, felt the climax building; I was grunting like a heavyweight boxer, and then I felt his arse tighten, saw the bucking of his hips as he spewed his sperm all over the bed, and I was right behind him, fucking my way through an orgasm so intense I seemed to black out, to lose sight and sound as I emptied my balls into him.

  When I came to, I had collapsed on top of Pascal, my sweaty chest on his sweaty back, both of us panting, my cock still inside him, still hard. I kissed the side of his face; he twisted round so that our lips could meet, but it was too uncomfortable, and as my dick began to soften, I dismounted.

  Judging from the mess he’d made on the bedspread, Pascal had just had one of the biggest orgasms in history, but he wasn’t done with me yet. He held me, kissing me, running his hands over me, licking, working his way down to my cock. He wanted it inside him, limp or hard, mouth or arse, and so I let him suck it, stroking his head, marvelling at the beauty of his body and the seemingly permanent erection throbbing between his legs. I reached down and wanked him as he nursed on my prick, and before long he was building toward a second orgasm. I was so impressed and surprised that I got hard again as well, holding his head down on me, pushing into his throat as I brought him off with my hand. He gagged a bit as he came, tears coming out of the corners of his eyes, and spewed another, smaller load over my fingers and his thigh. Finally he let my cock go, we embraced and kissed and fell asleep.

  I fucked Pascal again in the small hours, a strange, dreamlike experience in the dim light of early dawn, and awoke again to find him asleep beside me, so lovely and so warm that my cock stirred immediately—and, more surprisingly, my heart stirred too. I didn’t want to let him go. This moment was so perfect, and it felt so good to hold him and to know I could fuck him again, or maybe teach him to fuck me, if we only had time and freedom, all those things that life denies us.

  ‘I’d better go,’ he said, eyes still closed, his voice croaky. ‘I have to get to college.’

  ‘And I have to go to work,’ I said, ‘but we have half an hour.’

  So I fucked him again until my dick was sore and I could barely come, but we managed it.

  Pascal showered first while I stripped the bed, loaded the washing machine, and scoured the bedroom for evidence. A tiny scrap of foil from one of the many condom packets we’d used could be all it took to give us away. Why was I bothering? Surely such recklessness was crying out for discovery?

  I made coffee and showered. When I got to the kitchen, Pascal was dressed, his coat on, nervously drumming his hands on his thighs, headphones in.

  ‘Give me a minute, and I’ll give you a lift to the station or somewhere.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Do you want anything to eat?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  He wouldn’t look at me.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Good.’ I wanted to say something nice, but my mind was blank. Can we see each other again? Do you love me? Do you want me? Of course not. None of the above. Impossible.

  ‘I think I should go,’ he said, gulping the last of his coffee.

  ‘No, it’s fine, wait.’

  ‘I know where I am.’ He stood up and shouldered his kitbag. ‘Thank you.’

  There was nothing to say. I went to embrace him, but he offered his hand instead. We shook, and I showed him to the door, and I could think of nothing to talk about except the weather.

  I watched him walk down the road, never looking back, and when he’d turned the corner, I went indoors and felt sick.

  No time for self-pity though. There was more evidence to be destroyed. Feeling like a murderer, I went around the house with a forensic eye, looking for anything that would betray Pascal’s presence. A pubic hair, a fibre from his tracksuit, an unfamiliar foot-print—anything could be used against me. A guilty conscience, you’re thinking, and you’re right—I felt as if I’d just murdered my marriage. There’s a difference between sneaking out to saunas and strangers’ flats, and actually bringing someone home to fuck in the bed my wife sleeps in. OK, she’s away, she’ll never know, but that’s not the point. Actions have meanings and consequences, and even if I’m never found out, I’ve crossed a line. I can never go back. It’s not a question of whether I’m going to leave my wife, just when.

  But if I leave Angie, where do I go? Who do I go to? I have that horrible vision of myself growing old in a one-bedroom flat, alone, desperately scouring Craigslist for today’s trade, losing my friends, never seeing my kids. I’m at the crossroads now. One false move, and I’m screwed.

  What are my options? Pascal just disappeared into thin air, and I’m not going to scare him by trying to get him back. Besides which, however good we felt together, he’s less than half my age. What about Graham? A little older than me, but a nice guy, a great fuck, and certainly rich enough to save me from bedsitter hell. But why on earth would he choose me, out of all the high-class arse he can afford—and which he is no doubt shoving his bull cock into in the south of France? There’s nothing special about a forty-something married man with family issues.

  Michael at the gym—the first man to make me come? We have nothing in common besides a gym membership. Adrian, the one I still blame for starting all this? For all I know, he’s straight. And the others—disappeared, gone, emails deleted, contacts broken.

  If you’re running away, Joe Heath, you’d better have somewhere to go.

  Alex came home at the end of the week. He looked tired and pale from study; this was a boy who always wanted to play outdoors, to be running around, and he was pining from lack of exercise. Angie was staying away for a few more days, she said; it was my job to get Alex up and ready in the morning, make sure he was fed, washed, and wearing clean clothes. I got my orders by email and text; we did
n’t even speak on the phone. It didn’t occur to me that anything was wrong. Actually I was relieved. A few more days to compose myself after the enormity of what I’d done to Pascal in our bed began to fade.

  It was nice to be a father again, or would have been if Alex could actually talk to me—but he came and went with barely a word, just a grunt of recognition. He stayed in his room during the evenings, and even if I managed to persuade him to eat at the table with me, he avoided eye contact and refused to be drawn into conversation. Questions like ‘Alex, are you OK?’ were met with scowls or eye-rolling or, at best, evasive replies like ‘of course I’m OK, Dad.’

  I remember exams well enough to know what he was going through, but this seemed extreme. We used to get on well. I thought we still did. Perhaps in some way, he knows that I’m leaving him, betraying his mother, busting up the family.

  Another email announcing a further day’s delay.

  ‘What’s your mother up to exactly?’ I asked Alex over breakfast one morning. He just scowled, and shovelled cereal into his mouth even faster than usual.

  ‘Did she say anything to you?’

  Spoon crashed into bowl as he got up.

  ‘Alex, I’m talking to you.’

  ‘I dunno.’

  ‘Come on. She must have said something.’

  ‘You and Mum need to talk.’ His face was paler than ever, circles under his eyes, and I realized with a shock that he was about to cry. I hadn’t seen Alex cry since he was eleven years old and fell off his bike.

  ‘Alex, what’s the matter?’

  But he was gone, grabbing his bag and slamming the front door.

  Oh Jesus, she knows. She’s found out. She’s left me.

  It was the only possible explanation. Instead of a big confrontation, she was simply going to leave without discussion. Perhaps even now she was scouting out a new place to live, seeing a lawyer who would slap me with divorce papers and a bill for child support. How long do I have to pay for them? Until Alex leaves home? Until they’re all earning? What happens to the house? Will I have to sell it? Will I see them at Christmas? What about this wedding we’re supposed to be going to? Oh Christ, what have I done?

  As you can see I was taking a sensible, mature approach to the situation. As soon as I was certain that Alex was out of the house, I sent off a flurry of emails, and managed to set up a lunchtime meeting with a man in a hotel near my office. That was one way of avoiding the situation. I hoped he really was a total top, as promised, and that the penis in the photo really was his, because I wanted him to fuck my brains out. I was on auto-pilot all morning, answering calls and attending meetings, but it was just background noise. All I could think about was getting fucked, because if I thought about anything else, it led back to impending disaster.

  At 11:45, shortly before I was due to leave for my lunchtime assignation, my phone rang. It was Angie. Angie only ever calls me at work if there’s an emergency—in the old days, it was if one of the kids was ill or she couldn’t pick them up from school. What now? I just wanted to let you know that you’ll be hearing from my lawyers . . .

  I hesitated before picking up. It would be so easy to let it go to voicemail, run off to get fucked, and face the music later . . .

  But old habits die hard. Something bad could have happened.

  ‘Hi darling.’ I tried to sound bright and breezy. ‘You OK?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine.’ She sounded as falsely cheerful as I did. ‘Just to say I’m coming back tomorrow.’

  ‘Right.’ How soon could I get off the phone? I didn’t want to be late. ‘See you then.’

  ‘And . . . look, what time will you be home from work?’

  ‘What, tomorrow? Usual time. Depends if I go to the gym.’

  ‘Could you possibly make it a bit earlier than usual? I need to . . . we need to . . . I think we need to talk.’ She sounded uncharacteristically nervous. This was not the Angie I know, a woman unafraid to speak her mind. It’s all about to end. It’s all about to change.

  ‘Of course. I can skip the gym.’ Keep it light, Joe. Keep disaster at bay. ‘Shall I pick up something nice for dinner?’

  ‘What? Oh, yes, if you want to. Her voice was a little shaky. ‘See you then. How’s Alex?’

  ‘He grunts at me in the hall occasionally. That’s about it.’

  She laughed, then stopped herself. ‘See you tomorrow then.’ ‘OK.’

  There was a long pause. She was waiting for me to say something. Like where the fuck have you been? Or what is going on? But I was silent, and she hung up.

  I made it on time for a long and occasionally painful fuck. He wasn’t particularly good looking, but he wasn’t hideous, he knew what he was doing, and his cock was certainly big. He slapped my arse a lot and called me names, which is what I wanted.

  I got back to my desk, I worked, I went to the gym, I went home, and spent the evening with Alex, in different parts of the house, and I slept alone in my daughter’s bed. Or didn’t sleep. At half past two I was wide awake, and anyone who suffers from insomnia will know that in the next four hours, I explored all the saddest, darkest scenarios that my imagination had to offer.

  As soon as it was dawn, I got up.

  7

  THE FIRST THING I SAW WHEN I WALKED THROUGH THE DOOR WAS a suitcase. Memories of holidays and weekend breaks flashed through my mind—sunshine, the children excited, piling into the car, hands sticky from ice creams, the feeling of liberation as we drove away from home and school and jobs.

  ‘Angie?’

  ‘I’m in the kitchen.’

  She was cleaning. On her knees turning out the cupboard under the sink. I’m familiar with Angie’s cleaning mode. She goes into it when she’s stressed or unhappy.

  ‘Hi. Nice to see you.’ I went to kiss her but she turned away. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘I stayed on in Dorset for a bit.’

  ‘Yes. With Helen?’ This was the old college friend with the rambling country house and garden where Alex and Angie had gone for their retreat. That’s where I was supposed to believe she’d been, but now I was beginning to wonder.

  Angie’s head disappeared into the cupboard. I could smell cleaning fluid. She said something, but I couldn’t hear it.

  ‘What?’

  She emerged, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘No, not with Helen.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’ I had carrier bags full of food. I started to unpack them. Neither of us looked at the other. ‘Where then?’

  ‘Joe.’

  Hummus, salami, olive bread, grapes, fizzy water, a bottle of Orvieto. I arranged them neatly.

  From the silence behind me, I could tell that the housework had been suspended. This must be serious.

  ‘Joe.’

  ‘I hope you’re hungry.’ I turned around. ‘I got some nice grub.’

  ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘Yes. Evidently.’

  Am I the guilty party here? It didn’t feel that way. There was no accusation in her voice. She hasn’t found out. I got away with it. It’s something else. I dodged the bullet.

  ‘I’m moving out for a while.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I need some space.’

  I realized that I wasn’t reacting properly. I should have been shocked or furious. This should have been a bolt from the blue. But I’d been living with the idea that my marriage was all but over for so long now, it all seemed rather unsensational. What surprised me was that it seemed to be Angie who was leaving, rather than me—but I couldn’t let on about that.

  ‘Oh. I see.’

  Silence for a while.

  ‘Is that all you’ve got to say?’

  I perched on the edge of the table, facing her. ‘I don’t know what else to say. Do you want to tell me anything?’

  Does she know? Is she leaving because she’s found out about me?

  ‘Can’t you guess?’

  Of course I could fucking guess, but I wasn’t going to make the admission until
it was forced out of me. I just shrugged and poured myself a glass of water.

  ‘I’m seeing someone else, Joe.’

  Fuck. I wasn’t expecting that.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No, I’m making it up.’ Angie only resorts to sarcasm when she’s angry.

  ‘Anyone I know?’ This was heading toward a major bust-up. We know exactly how to push each other’s buttons. After twenty-plus years, we’re experts.

  ‘No, it’s nobody you fucking know.’

  ‘Has Alex met him?’

  ‘Yes.’ She looked at her feet.

  ‘I suppose you were all on holiday together, were you? Trying out his new dad.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Joe. It’s not like that.’

  ‘What is it like, then?’

  ‘Oh come on.’ She looked me in the face, her cheeks red, eyes wet. ‘You must have realized that we’re not exactly working.’

  I sipped my water. ‘Apparently not.’

  ‘When did we last have sex, Joe? When did we last really talk?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  My coolness was whipping her up into a frenzy, but if I allowed myself to get angry, it would all come out. And while you’ve been seeing this other man, I’ve been sucking every cock I can get my lips round, I take it up the arse, I’m gay, your husband is gay.

  Tears rolled down Angie’s face. She rubbed them away, cross with herself. ‘I can’t talk now.’ She marched out of the kitchen. ‘Make sure Alex goes to school.’

  ‘He has exams. You’re walking out when he has exams.’

  She screamed, ‘I know!’ from the hall, then I heard the door open and slam shut, and she was gone.

  I remained calm. I actually surprised myself with my calmness. Shouldn’t I be running out into the street, dragging her back, demanding explanations? That’s what my father would have done, in the unlikely event of my mother announcing she was running off with another man. He wouldn’t have let her walk out without a word.