by Sam Anthony
“Don’t forget your appraisal meeting in my office after school tomorrow. If you haven’t achieved your performance management targets, I may have to punish you!” This is followed by a winking face emoji.
“Can we meet up sometime to discuss my feedback of your lesson observation? Your place or mine?!”
“Due to budget constraints, I’m afraid I won’t be able to replace your interactive whiteboard, however, I am open to bribery!”
It’s the exclamation marks that push these messages over the top, from mildly flirty and humorous, to slightly creepy and inappropriate.
After a while, I give up searching through Tamsin’s in-box and switch to the sent messages folder. This is even less enlightening. It’s entirely routine work communication, plus a few villa inquiries for our next summer vacation. Tamsin doesn’t appear to have sent any emails to her boss in reply to his potential overtures, which is something of a relief.
Next, I check the deleted items folder and find it empty. Tamsin has always been very good at tidying up after herself.
My email account is a mess. There are hundreds of unread messages, some of which are over six months old. My sent messages folder is bloated even though my employers insist that we delete all our sent emails on a regular basis, for data protection reasons.
Finally, I open Tamsin’s drafts folder. It contains one email, with the subject line: ‘Stuff!’
I open it.
I barely have time to register that it’s about ten lines long, when it disappears from the screen, to be replaced with the words: “No Mail.”
I can still see an afterimage of the outline of the email, but all the detail is gone.
A small number one has appeared next to the trash folder, but, as I watch, that too disappears.
◆◆◆
One Thursday, at the end of the working day, as people were heading home, Sophia dropped by my desk to say goodbye, wearing a long black coat. Being hard at work, I didn’t notice her at first. She stood close to me, with her back to our colleagues, and quietly cleared her throat to get my attention. When I looked up and smiled, she didn’t say anything, just smiled back and then, slowly and seductively, began to undo the buttons on her coat. After the first two buttons, it became apparent that she was no longer wearing the blouse she’d had on earlier in the day. The widening gap in her coat revealed a tantalising glimpse of a black, push-up bra and a magnificent cleavage. She didn’t stop there. As Sophia continued to unfasten the buttons, I realised that she’d also misplaced her skirt. When the last button was freed, she simply stood there, an angelic expression on her face, as I tried not to drool. There was a six-inch gap between the two sides of her coat, and that gap framed a gorgeous view. Beneath the coat, she was wearing a highly effective bra, and ... absolutely nothing else. My eyes instinctively sank to the tiny incongruous patch of immaculately coiffed body hair. I shifted in my seat, pleasantly uncomfortable, and Sophia smiled her knowing smile. She was fully aware of the effect she was having on me.
“I want you to think about me on your drive home,” she purred. “This is what I’m going to be wearing tomorrow lunchtime.”
She opened her coat wide, just for an instant, raised her eyebrows and smiled, then closed the coat, re-fastened all the buttons, turned and walked away, calling over her shoulder, “See you tomorrow, Lee.”
◆◆◆
I like my pornstars to have little or no body hair. It seems cleaner and more aesthetically pleasing. A large, overwhelming bush just distracts from the action. Nobody wants to see adult movie performers hacking their way through dense undergrowth in order to get to the good stuff.
Sophia maintains an immaculate lady garden. She has a trim little landing strip, but otherwise, there’s never a pube to be found. I don’t know if she’s had laser treatment down there, or if she undergoes frequent and regular depilation, but she certainly deserves full marks for maintaining high standards of unwanted pubic hair removal.
Tamsin occasionally has her bikini line waxed, but I can’t make head nor tail of her timing. She’ll always have it done immediately before we go on our summer vacation, which makes perfect sense if it’s bikini weather, but there are other apparently random times throughout the year when she’ll undertake a bit of a muff refurbishment: sometimes before a party, or a shopping trip, or for no obvious reason whatsoever.
I suppose it’s not unlike me getting a haircut. If there’s a social event imminent, I might have a trim, but if not, I let my hair grow until it looks too long, and then I visit my local barber. I guess that would appear random too.
I also do a bit of grooming and manscaping. Just some light personal trimming; certainly nothing involving lasers, waxing or chemicals.
◆◆◆
I wonder what the disappearing email said.
Perhaps Tamsin had just finished composing it and sent it at that moment, possibly between games in her tennis match. But then it should have moved to her sent folder, not to the trash. She must have decided that she no longer wanted to send it, so she deleted the draft and emptied the trash as a matter of routine. It was about ten lines of writing, though. How strange that Tamsin would spend so long composing an email, only to delete it without sending.
It probably wasn’t that interesting. I guess I’ll never find out. I can’t exactly ask her.
“Hey, Tam. I was snooping through your emails earlier and I nearly managed to read one in your drafts folder, but it disappeared too quickly. What was it about?”
An unsettling idea pops into my mind.
Should I be worried that Tamsin might be having an affair with her Head Teacher?
I burst out laughing and shake my head.
That’s totally impossible. I’m not convinced that Tamsin even enjoys having sex, so it’s highly unlikely that she’d go looking elsewhere for any extra.
◆◆◆
In late April, the weather turned summery, and we had several consecutive unseasonably hot and sunny days. I was rather sweaty after the drive to Sophia’s house, as my car had heated up while left in the shadeless staff car park. I opened the back gate, expecting to enter the house as usual, only to discover Sophia, reclined on a lounger, sunbathing stark naked in her garden.
She looked incredible. Other than sunglasses, she was as bare as the day she was born. There was sweat running down her chest and in between her beautiful breasts, before pooling in her navel. Her right hand was between her thighs as she touched herself brazenly and provocatively.
“Hi, babe,” she said, her voice husky. “Get your kit off and join me.”
“What about your neighbours?” I said in a whisper.
“Don’t worry. I chose a spot that isn’t overlooked by anybody.”
“Are you sure?” I said, gazing around at the buildings nearby.
“Absolutely. Now, are you going to take your clothes off, or do I have to do it for you?”
Her fingers were moving faster. I could tell she was highly aroused.
I was too. Alfresco, hot and sweaty sex was something I’d always wanted to try.
I stripped naked in seconds, not even pausing to arrange my discarded clothes into a neat pile, and I dived headfirst between Sophia’s parting thighs.
That afternoon, I arrived back at the office looking dishevelled and overheated, but I had a big, contented grin on my face for the rest of the day.
◆◆◆
As the years have passed, Tamsin has refused to let herself go physically, unlike many women of her age. I feel sorry for some men: those men who fall helplessly in love with lithe, attractive girls in their prime, who subsequently give up all exercise and stop watching their weight the moment they’ve hooked themselves a husband. Before long these poor guys find themselves committed, legally and emotionally, to an overweight, unfit, uncomely wife – whose physical decline has merely begun – with no options other than divorce, an affair, or remaining in a marriage with a partner who they’re no longer physically attracted to; until d
eath. How depressing!
I’m fortunate. Tamsin’s gym workouts and tennis matches have helped her to maintain a slim, toned physique into her forties. However, despite still having a great body, she’s begun to wear less sexy clothes when she goes out on the town. She always makes an effort to appear attractive and stylish, but she no longer dresses in the unashamedly sexy way she used to in her twenties. I think that Tamsin is still attractive enough to wear more daring outfits, and to allow herself to be lusted after for the way she looks, but she disagrees. She clearly doesn’t want to be seen as a sex object. That’s fair enough. She doesn’t want to be thought of as mutton dressed as lamb. But, in my opinion, it’s way too soon for her to start dressing her age; she’s more like lamb dressed as mutton.
I regularly tell Tamsin how attractive she looks; that she has a better body than many women half her age, and she ought to be more confident about her appearance and flaunt it. I think she’s extremely sexy, but when I tell her so, I always receive a negative response:
“How can you find me sexy after you’ve seen me giving birth?”
“You know I suffer from haemorrhoids and varicose veins, unlike girls in their twenties.”
“I’m too old to wear a skirt that short. People would laugh at me.”
While Tamsin’s skirts are getting longer, her hair is getting shorter, and I don’t like it. Before my eyes, she’s turning into her mother. It won’t be long until I’m married to an old woman.
Sophia, however, is quite happy to dress like a slut at every opportunity. Bless her! In fact she thrives on it. She doesn’t care what people think or say. The disapproving looks she receives from a handful of prudish women are a small price to pay if she manages to turn the heads, and brighten the days, of a few red-blooded men.
Chapter Ten
The Argument
“Wruut?” said the text message from Sophia.
This had become an alternative greeting we used occasionally instead of “Hi.” It was just a quick way of saying “What are you up to?”
Over the course of our affair, Sophia had begun to keep closer tabs on my movements. It was quite endearing really. She just liked to know where I was and what I was doing when we were apart.
“I’m at the gym,” I replied. “About to bench press 200kg!”
“Is that a lot?”
“I don’t like to boast, but the gym owner has invited a local news crew to film it!”
“Really?”
“No! I could never lift that much.”
“I bet you could do it if you put your mind to it. I think you’re very strong. X”
“If only! My record is 120kg, and that was six years ago. Back when I was young!”
“You’re still my hero! Xxx”
“Thanks, babe. I need to work on my fitness so I can keep up with you in bed!!!”
“You’re already amazing in bed!!! X”
“You’re not so bad yourself! xx”
“Thanks. Any requests for next Friday?!!”
“Actually, there’s one thing I’ve always wanted to try!”
“Name it. I’d do anything for you! X”
“You’re wonderful! Can you get hold of a sheep costume in your size?!”
“Ha ha! Or should that be baa baa!”
“No. I’m serious. I’ve always wanted to try bestiality!!”
“Ok. I’m up for it! X”
“What kind of perv do you think I am?!!”
“The regular kind! Any serious requests?”
◆◆◆
If I was the sort of weirdo who kept a spreadsheet for four years, recording every detail of my sex life with my wife, it would probably say that I initiate sex roughly ten times more often than she does; a ratio of 10:1.
Okay, I admit it. I did this and I’m not proud of it.
The ratio was probably 1:1 when we first got together at university, 3:1 by the time we got married, 5:1 after Charlie was born, 7:1 after John came along, 8:1 when Tamsin hit thirty-five and 10:1 now.
There’s nothing I can do to make Tamsin initiate sex more often than she does, and I expect this ratio to worsen considerably as we get older.
It isn’t fair. Tamsin can make me initiate sex whenever she wants. I don’t think she’s even aware of it, but all she has to do is one of the following things:
Let me glimpse her naked body.
Wear short dresses or skirts.
Tell me one of her fantasies.
Bend over and pick up something from the floor.
Lick her lips.
Undo one extra button on her blouse.
Eat a banana.
Go away for a few days.
Moan in her sleep.
Snuggle.
Say the word ‘moist’.
Give me a massage.
Ask for a massage.
Wear stockings.
Suck her finger.
Flirt with another man.
Put her hand on my thigh.
Walk around after a shower wearing nothing but a towel.
Kiss my neck.
Try on clothes in front of me.
Hug me for slightly longer than I’m expecting.
Brush one of her breasts against my arm.
Lie naked on our bed with her legs wide open while reading erotic literature and touching herself.
She’s never tried the last one, but I suspect it would be successful.
Now that I’m considering it, perhaps I’ve been doing Tamsin an injustice. Maybe, she’s been initiating sex a lot more than I’ve been giving her credit for, but she’s done it subtly; in a way that makes me believe it was my idea.
Sometimes I wonder what our sex life would be like if one of us stopped initiating sex altogether. To be honest, if she stopped, I don’t think either of us would notice the difference; but if I stopped, we could go months on end without making love.
I actually tried this once – when I was particularly frustrated with Tamsin’s lack of effort in the bedroom – but after three or four weeks of no action whatsoever, I became so horny that I cracked and begged for a resumption of my conjugal rights until she succumbed, and put me out of my misery. I don’t think she was even aware that we’d gone so long without any physical intimacy.
Tamsin isn’t very affectionate these days either. If I take her hand when we’re out walking, she’ll continue to hold mine for a while, until she needs to adjust her hair or do something on her phone. She’s never the instigator of handholding. If I hug her, she hugs me back warmly, if briefly, but she rarely originates a hug herself. There are times when it seems as if she feels guilty for not initiating sex very often, because, after two or three months of apathy, she actually begins to bestow sporadic hugs upon me. It’s as if she’s giving me a consolation prize. “No. I can’t be bothered to initiate sex with you, Lee, but here’s a ten-second hug instead. I hope it’ll suffice.” A hug hiatus always follows any occasion when Tamsin originates sex or plays a more active role in our sex lives. “We had sex with the lights on last night, and today you want a hug too!”
◆◆◆
Sophia strode back into the bedroom, stark naked. She truly was a fine looking woman. Her hair was tousled from just having had rampant sex, and her make-up was smeared, but she still looked gorgeous. She could tell I was admiring her, and she smiled contentedly. Picking up her phone from beside the bed, she walked back to the doorway, giving me a lovely view of her pert bottom, then turned and prepared to take a photo of me.
“What are you doing?” I said.
“You look so good lying there. Tangled up in my bedsheets. Looking up at me adoringly. I want to capture the moment.”
“That’s sweet, Soph. But you know you can’t keep it.”
She took the picture.
Then she took a few more, moving around the bed to catch me from different angles, as I laughed at her pretence that she was a professional photographer, working with a reluctant model.
“Come on, sweet cheeks, give me
some emotion. Make love to the camera. That’s it. More pouting. Perfect. Now show me some more skin.”
“What kind of guy do you take me for?” I said, covering myself up with the sheet.
Sophia joined me on the bed.
“Let’s take a couple of selfies too,” she said.
Before I could object, she was pointing her phone at the two of us and taking multiple photos.
We pressed our heads together and smiled cheesily at the camera.
Then Sophia took a few further pictures as she kissed my cheek and neck, and more still of us gazing at each other lovingly.
“Let’s have a look,” she said, and scrolled through the pictures.
We looked at them together. Some were awful. I’d been caught mid-blink in several, and in others my mouth was a funny shape, but there were one or two really nice photos.
“Damn, we make a mighty fine looking couple,” Sophia said, smiling to herself.
“We really do,” I replied. “Especially you. You’re so photogenic.”
She kissed me.
“You say the sweetest things, babe.”
“It’s true.” I caressed her cheek. “Now delete them.”
“Oh, please, babe. Let me keep this one. We look so good.”
“Absolutely not. You know the deal.”
She pouted. Sophia naked and pouting is a sight to behold.
“What if I lock it away, in a secret folder, in my already password-protected phone, where nobody could get access to it?”
“No. Even if nobody sees it, I don’t want there to be any evidence of our affair in existence.”
“Well, what am I supposed to gaze at adoringly when I’m pining for you?” she said.