Temptation Close

by Scarlett Rush

  He was a consummate breast man and she had the goods. That’s what got him attracted to her in the first place. She was cat-eyed pretty too, but without those boobs he wouldn’t have stayed around. Back then they were big but firm, soft and flawlessly smooth. She was ecstatic that he adored them so much and her as a result. She loved the fact that he couldn’t keep his hands off her and didn’t care who saw it. She was more than happy to show off her cleavage whenever they were together. She was nearly as proud of them as he was. Her first pregnancy saw them get bigger and stay that way. He loved her more for it and wanted her to keep the same bras as before, to keep that chest forever nearly spilling out onto a grateful world.

  Even after her second pregnancy they weren’t too spoiled. They stayed smooth and shapely and the nipples didn’t spread too much. Sadly, gravity never graces anyone too long with its absence; it visits us all soon enough. Through her late thirties she became more conscious about the weight of them and the effect they were having upon her back. His answer was simply for her to keep jacking them up in too-small, half-cup bras. By then she was almost constantly peroxide-haired. She wore make-up most days. She had developed an image of bawdiness, one who liked a flirt and a dirty joke. True, the thrill of sexiness and sexuality made her warm inside, but she was not overtly sexual despite what people thought. It was more sexiness by proxy: the way her husband liked her to dress, for instance, or the way when a male stripping troupe came to town the girls all said, ‘I bet Shelley will be up for that!’ even though she was no more up for it than any of the rest of them. People like to create images and identify with them, and hers was of a naughty, bawdy housewife.

  On first inspection one might take her for what was commonly referred to these days as a cougar, even though in reality she never possessed the poise and boldness, and possibly even the inclination, to genuinely chat anyone up, let alone actually seduce them. Perhaps her husband had always known this, which is why he was happy to let her engage in her mild flirting whenever drink gave her some added courage. She had retained enough of her looks to just about get away with it. At age 44 it was universally proclaimed that she looked a good five years younger, quite possibly more. The cleavage she was told to flaunt was still reasonably smooth and looked inviting huddled together in her too-tight bras. However, she knew it wasn’t the same when the bra was off, when the make-up was off. She was currently walking the finest of tightropes between cougar and mutton, and there was no other way to go but down.

  The moral of the story was that if you don’t want to give a certain impression, then don’t dress or look like an ageing man-eater. The trouble was, although she didn’t want to appear like this, she could do nothing to divert the image. The impression had already been made. The risqué character was almost second nature. Moreover, she was far too worried that her husband would go off her if she did. He might have been crude and overbearing at times but he was all she had ever known. He looked after her, kept her, was immensely proud of her, and had never yet done her wrong, of that she was sure. He asked only that she stayed gorgeous for him. She was terrified that she was losing the ability to do so.

  She thought she could still be attractive with a different image, a toned-down, more natural look, a bit of sophistication. He remained convinced the bimbo look was all he and other men were after. When a couple of times she had begun to grow the blonde dye out he had himself made her a hair appointment. He bought her a succession of lovely pendant chains to ensure she had good reason to wear tops that showed them off. He made her feel like she was betraying him if she didn’t conform to his image at all times. Ironically, when at the welcoming party she had attempted to dress with a little more circumspection, desperate to give the new man a better impression of herself, her choice of top had been vetoed in favour of a tight one with a plunging V-front. Well, it had apparently done the job, far better than her husband might now have liked if he knew.

  Over the years she had used all sorts of creams and preparations in an effort to keep a firm bust. Now, scarily, she had to concede that the battle was starting to be lost. When she had mentioned needing some fuller, better fitting bras, he had suggested a boob job, and was deadly serious. It was the best way to enhance them, he said. She knew that if anything she needed a reduction, especially as her back-pain was becoming a common problem. She should have stood up to his childish fixation and almost bullying influence but she had never possessed the strength to do this. All she saw was increasing gloom, with her husband falling ever out of love with her. Worse still, for all his apparent continued obsession with her breasts, he was clearly not giving them as much attention in private as he used to. The stark reality was that a boob enhancement might be the only way to regain his attention before he was forced elsewhere to sate his breast fetish - not that he had ever given her cause to think he would cheat.

  For a long while she had considered herself to be in a no-win situation: damned if she did and scared of the outcome if she didn’t. She wanted to remain attractive, to still feel sexy. The unpalatable truth was, for all her efforts, her husband was finding her less so. His answer seemed to be to make a Frankenstein’s monster out of her and who knew where that would end? She hadn’t actually felt sexy in herself for some time, so this morning’s events were a bolt from the blue. It was so different to all the beating about the bush innuendo she had been on the end of over the years. It was so direct, so unequivocal. She tried to think of any way she might have misconstrued what had been said but the more she replayed the incident, the more her legs shook and her stomach flipped, the more clear-cut it became.

  So here is what happened: she and hubby were out front tidying the borders of their garden. Her husband didn’t usually have Fridays off. It was a nice bright morning and a treat to have him join her. Hunter appeared at his car, giving them a little wave. He was seemingly about to get in but instead he came over and thanked them again for throwing the welcoming party. He told them how thoughtful it was, how much of a difference it would make in having him feel part of the neighbourhood. He wasn’t staring down her top, or even into her eyes. He gave no clue as to what was to follow. They chatted a bit about gardening although he didn’t confess to having any interest in it. Her husband waffled a bit, perhaps trying to gain some kudos by showing off his expertise.

  Hunter politely listened without interruption, his focus always on the eyes of the talker. Then her husband turned his head to indicate some low box-hedging on Number Five’s lawn. Hunter’s own head remained as it was but his eyes turned towards hers. He looked at her a little seriously for a few brief instances, maybe only two seconds. Then he slowly, silently mouthed the words, ‘I want to fuck you.’ She had almost collapsed on the spot. His eyes stayed fixed on hers for just another few fleeting fractions, just to cement the moment, then as the husband turned back, Hunter was looking at him again, his expression just as it was before, as if nothing at all had happened.

  The husband talked for maybe thirty seconds more and then Hunter said he would leave them in peace. He didn’t throw her any more meaningful glances but as he went by in his car he gave her a sideways look and just a small nod, which she took to imply he meant business. Fortunately her husband left shortly after for golf because she was in pieces. Her legs wouldn’t stop shaking and the cake mix was everywhere. All her silly flirting at the welcoming party and now this bombshell. She tried to think back to one clue, even the tiniest hint that he thought anything more of her other than that she was a mildly-pissed, middle-aged chatterbox with her knockers half on show. There was none.

  She didn’t know what to do about it. There was no way she could find it within herself to sneak round and warn him off, so the threat was going to stay out there, waiting to happen. She didn’t know how to avoid it. Her husband would be off to the pub that evening and if he didn’t take Hunter with him then she would be there all alone with him just yards away. He had told the girls at her party that they wer
en’t safe from him but she certainly hadn’t taken it that literally. Now she couldn’t tell excitement from fear.

  Of course she had already had a few private thoughts about this man but nothing she dreamed would ever come to reality. She mouthed the words to herself in the mirror to see if she could have been wrong. Strangely, once upon a time her husband used to mouth ‘I love you’ at her, and then pretend he had merely said ‘elephant’. It was a little joke between them. There was no possible alternative here. It had been unambiguously delivered: the teeth pressing and holding just a few milliseconds longer than normal on the bottom lip to accentuate the word fuck; the seriousness in the eyes.

  For all her married life she had been put out there on a plate, ostensibly to make other men lust after her so her husband could feed his ego. She had always enjoyed the flirting and attention, perhaps privately even the thrill of thinking what might happen if someone pursued her with any vigour. However, she was also happy that these men rarely matched up to her husband and that none of them were big enough or stupid enough to defy him by actually trying it on with her. It was a safe, naughty little game they all played. A bit of harmless fun, the odd stiffy hidden in the trousers of the man and some welcome flattery and a bit of a tingle down there for her. Then back to the arms of her loving husband.

  For the first time ever her bluff had been called, massively. Not by any old Tom, Dick or Harry, but by a man who could pull the rug from beneath you and make nothing in this world focusable upon but him. If this man meant business then she was in big trouble. He had the power and the looks to make your ideas of morality and faithfulness evaporate in an instant. He could make your legs turn to jelly if you even thought of running away. There was not a husband alive he would give even the slightest shit about. Her safety net had vanished. The notion that she would never act upon her naughty fantasies was exploded. She had always been secretly relieved that no one would ever have the balls to take her and show her the kind of deep passion that proved what she always really knew: that her husband only ever loved her as a big-titted bimbo. If this man really was coming for her then she faced a potentially irresistible force. However much she wanted to stay faithful - if only to avoid making obvious the superficiality of her husband’s love for her, which she so steadfastly tried not to think about - she didn’t know where to find the emotional tools and the willpower to allow her to mount an effective defence.

  Boys’ Night Out

  What a collection of pricks. On one side were the husbands of Nesta, Roni and Alicia, all looking at him with adoring eyes and trying to get his favour. On the other was the Policeman, the Italian and the Show-Off, all sporting faces like slapped arses, all trying to look like their manliness hadn’t been totally stripped away. In the middle, a world apart from all, or so it seemed to Eva, was Hunter. He had to play down the hero worship coming from the one side whilst patiently ignoring the unnecessary jibes and put-downs aimed from, in particular, the Italian.

  This was Hunter’s first Temptation Close Boys’ Night Out and, if the others didn’t shut the fuck up, Eva could see it being the last. The adoration was caused

  by the revelation via the wives that Hunter had not only been in the army but, if reports of covert ops were true, he must have been in some kind of Special Forces regiment. He wasn’t giving much away on this score. Eva hoped it was true, since it made him even more of a hard bastard and probably more ruthless too. The Policeman, the Italian and the Show-Off wanted it to be bullshit because it meant the new boy’s past endeavours clearly trumped their own macho pretensions.

  Hunter remained coy about the whole thing, holding up his hands and giving a slight smile as he claimed there was nothing to tell. Perhaps the secrets he held were too much for mere mortals. Perhaps he just didn’t want them finding out he did nothing more than peel potatoes for the real front-line guys. He was on beer tonight, either because he thought wine would seem a bit poncey, or because a glass of it took a larger lump out of the shared pot than a pint. Whatever, he was only sipping it and was a couple of drinks behind some of the others who were chucking it down their necks as usual. They were trying to wheedle information out of him but he just shrugged at most things and gave little away. Eva wondered if she should tell the guys about Hunter’s claim to never lie, but then she decided that the more she knew about him than they did the better.

  Maybe he told them more than she realised. She wasn’t really listening anyway. She was thinking about how she could turn this perfect specimen into a character for her next book. It struck her that her regular companions were being even more jovial and boastful than usual in their attempts to vie for her attention whilst trying to put Hunter in the shade. What was a usually boisterous event had a tinge of drunken desperation to it, like a prize was slipping away. Bethan’s husband the Show-Off was the worst culprit. He was funny in crude way, never letting an innuendo slip by, however crass.

  Considering his wife was such an insipid mute - a pretty one, but boring nonetheless - he could talk a wet lettuce rigid. Eva could have closed her eyes and easily pictured him gabbling in that loud, cock-sure way of his, pictured him stroking his erect prick as he spoke, so pleased was he with how much he was putting the others in the shade, daring them to get their own pricks out to challenge him. Now that sounded like an evening to remember. Maybe that’s how she should separate them: get them all in a cock competition. They were so desperate to please her they would probably comply. Sadly, Hunter would never be drawn by such things.

  The Show-Off was currently announcing that he had such big balls they exceeded the baggage allowance on most internal flights. He had clearly borrowed this witticism and bent the conversation so he could use it. He did it to goad her, she knew this. He wanted her to make a comment, thus revealing that she knew the truth. He wanted them all to know, even if that did carry heavy implications, but she had told him on many occasions he would never have her again if he breathed a word. That’s how she kept all her street secrets so tight. He didn’t have the biggest balls anyway. The Policeman did. And that didn’t mean he had the biggest cock, it just meant he was the eldest. However, Hunter was nearly the same age, so perhaps this crown would be taken. Only time would tell.

  The Italian was the quieter assassin. He had honed his skills on the other neighbours, and probably with every other male he had ever known. His method was to slip in a jibe without warning, then laugh and claim he was only joking, before the victim had time to summon a come-back. It could be done with cutting, stark nastiness, but then the follow-up laugh, as if all was a joke, made you look a fool if you tried an insult in return. Plus he could turn if he was derided, and none of them wanted to do that. He was a cheap-shot merchant, thought Eva. He was a snide, back-stabbing fuck who would get one over on you as if his honour depended upon it.

  Hunter’s “boy-racer” bike had been derided, as had his job as an artist. He didn’t rise to it, merely lifting his eyebrows and smiling in quiet defeat. In some ways Eva wished he had got up and delivered hay-makers all round, especially as the focus upon him was deflecting that upon her. However, her greatest annoyance was that Hunter was being distracted from giving her any attention. The only plus point was that the newcomer would be in no doubt about who was the main prize to be claimed in the street, and who got the hearts racing. It seemed inevitable that he would want to sink all his rivals and take that prize. That had to be human nature, surely?

  On the way home she tried to monopolise the newcomer and assure him their nights out weren’t always that combative. She told him, loud enough for them all to hear, that it was just jealousy. The Italian spat some quiet oath in his native language. That sly fucker had been the biggest spoiler. Hunter could shut them all up right now, just by taking her by the hand and leading her towards his place. His house was at the bottom of the close so he couldn’t get her there by subtle means. He would have to be brazen. She thought briefly about clasping his hand to
give him the hint, and perhaps she should have done, because he suddenly veered away from her, taking a short-cut right across his wet front lawn towards his door, calling out his goodbye without even looking back over his shoulder.

  She couldn’t go after him and not look desperate. It was hardly surprising the new guy wanted to get away from them as quickly as possible. All night she had been picturing the fuck he would give her whilst she sat upon that expensive-looking sleek sideboard they had carried past her the day he moved in. She would be sat legs open, her skirt pulled up around her waist, her already wet underwear moved to the side for him. They would kiss as he slid two fingers inside her to ensure she was ready for him, and then he would look into her eyes with that serious, melting expression of his as he made her suck them clean. Their lips would meet again as he drove in to the hilt and filled her. Then he would carry her to that long, luxurious black leather sofa the removal guys had such trouble getting through the door, stuff her mouth with her knickers, hook his elbows behind her knees and plunge into her with deep, remorseless thrusts that had her screaming.

  That stupid Italian twat had stopped all this. She cursed him as he peeled off to the left towards the back entrance of his house. He replied with a middle finger held up in the air. She continued straight towards her place, sliding down the side passage but stopping short of the back gate. She waited and listened for the succession of doors and gates to open and close. She saw some lights pool on drives and lawns. This was the moment to be careful, to ensure all blinds were shut before making the move. Then she was off through the shadows, her hands sliding up her thighs taking the skirt with them. She had no knickers on. The shape she targeted was hardly visible in the solid blackness but experience told her where to aim. She found the hardness of his body flat against the wall of his house and she fell against it. Both breathed hard with their lust.