Free Universal Carnal Knowledge
II
Cooling off
I quaffed the whole flask off in one go and regretted it instantly. The taste, which was as foul as the smell should have led me to expect, shocked me into the realisation that in a moment’s frustration and despair I had swallowed some rank concoction of unknown composition and potency. I half expected to collapse to the ground in agony like someone in a hackneyed Jekyll-and-Hyde transformation scene but, to my relief, I could sense no immediate ill effects beyond the memorably vile taste. With a slight sense of anti-climax, I drank several glasses of water, did a quick tour of the house to ensure it was secure and everything was turned off, and rang for a cab.
It was only when I sat down to wait that I became aware of a mild discomfort, like a slight stomach cramp. But by the time the cab arrived, mere minutes later, I was almost doubled up with abdominal pain, had a steadily worsening headache, and was beginning to sweat profusely. I really wanted to go to hospital but I felt embarrassed to admit what had happened and I was too proud to let Wendy think that she had driven me to attempt suicide (if she had; I do not think my motives were that clear). So I told the cabbie to take me home, assuring him that, despite appearances, I was perfectly all right. (“You OK, guv?” “Yes, I’m fine. Too much to drink, that’s all.” – almost the truth, really.)
At home I let myself in as quietly as possible and collapsed into the spare room bed. I was still in great discomfort and hardly expected to sleep, but in fact I dozed off at once. My night was marked, however, by a series of dreams of an extraordinarily intense eroticism. One after another, in fact often several at a time, buxom young women ripped off what little they were wearing and threw themselves upon me. One or two them I knew, notably little Connie from work who appeared more than once, and a few of them were from Uncle Albert’s laboratory wall, but most of them were conjured up from my own imagination.
The next thing I remember, a hand was gently rocking me awake, sunlight was filtering through the curtain and Wendy, dressed for work, was sitting on the bed looking at me with a curious mixture of animosity and solicitude, the former predominating.
“I thought I’d better wake you up before I left,” she said. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you. You haven’t got a temperature but you’re terribly flushed and you’re in a cold sweat. I’ve rung your office and told them you won’t be in because of a bereavement. Do you want me to call Dr Wyatt?”
I managed to mumble something to the effect that it must be some reaction to the trauma of the night before.
“Yes,” she said, “I suppose so. I’m sorry for the bad timing, but I meant what I said. We’ll talk tonight if you’re feeling better. I must go now, I’m late. Goodbye.”
With that she went, leaving me feeling desolate. The “Goodbye” had sounded so final.
I wanted to stay in the bed but the sheets were too damp after a night’s cold sweat. When I threw them off me, I saw they were riddled with the unmistakable stain of semen – a good job Wendy had not seen that, I thought – and only then did I remember the dreams. As I recalled them, especially the ones involving Connie, I felt myself getting aroused. I was surprised, judging by the state of the sheets, that I had any more spunk to offer, but after only a few moments’ pounding the bed was even messier.
After a shower and some breakfast I felt much better – remarkably fit, in fact – and spent the rest of the day washing the sheets, making arrangements about poor Uncle Albert, and generally getting on with things. It was strange to be at home on a working day. I heard the commotion next door as our neighbour got her kids off to school, then her door slammed again as she left for work herself.
It may be snobbish but I had always found these neighbours rather common. Betty Rico had three kids; I gathered that she got financial support from some man but he never appeared so I presume he was married (tut tut). It is not that they were bad people as such, but they were loud and vulgar. Currently, they all sported glorious tans having just returned from a fortnight in Grancanaria (during term time – tut tut again). The two boys were notorious tearaways and their elder sister, Kylie, sixteen last month, was just blooming into womanhood. And “blooming”, believe me, was the operative word. The boys and the mother had the generous build conferred by the family’s love of fast food, but over the last year or two Kylie had outdone them all. She had simply exploded in every possible direction. I know I like a few curves but Kylie’s curves had curves; she was barely five feet tall but must have weighed at least twelve stone and every time I saw her she had somehow found space for a few extra pounds. However, this did not stop her from being bright, brash and confident; nor did it prevent her from wearing the skimpiest outfits she possibly could (tut tut again). I mention Kylie because about ten minutes after Betty had left for work I heard next door’s gate and saw Kylie, looking round cautiously, sneak back up her front path and let herself in. A few minutes later I could hear her favourite music through the party wall. Tut tut yet again.
But I had no time to waste disapproving of the neighbours. There was a lot I had to do and I was surprised how well all this activity distracted me from moping about the break-up of my marriage. Another thing that surprised me was the frequency with which improper thoughts entered my head; for instance when I was at the undertaker’s discussing Uncle Albert’s funeral I found myself distracted by another type of stiff. Twice during the day I had to find relief. I also looked in at Uncle Albert’s to check all was in order. I had hoped to start tidying it up, look for his will and other important documents, and maybe even find some notes about FUCK, but I was running out of time so I went home to face the music when Wendy got back from work.
I hated the idea of divorce. Wendy and I had had twenty years together. She had had great ambitions for me when we first got together, and I knew she was disappointed that I had ended up in a middle-ranking job in insurance (“You could have done so much better,” she always said). We had had our good times, and, particularly in recent years, we had had our rows. Always immaculately turned out, her dark hair cut short these days, she remained a handsome woman – a little above average height, at forty-six still as slim as she had been at twenty-five – but I have to admit that as the years went by I more and more found myself noticing younger women, especially if they boasted the right curves. But however much I looked and lusted, I never strayed; and I always knew that I loved my wife.
As soon as she arrived home I could see she was in a friendlier mood. She was still relatively curt and distant, but she asked after my health (to which I could honestly reply that I had never felt better) and let me make her a cup of tea. After we had had something to eat (the usual slam-in-the-microwave pre-packed meal), we sat down in the front room to talk. Feeling I still needed more mental rehearsal time for my begging “don’t leave me” speech, I let her go first.
“Look,” she said after a long, awkward silence, “I’ve been thinking. I was wrong to say what I did last night when – you know…” She trailed off. I made an encouraging gesture.
“I was wrong,” she said again. “It wasn’t fair to say it when I did. You’d just lost your uncle. I apologise. And …” she paused; “I’m still upset but we shouldn’t make such important decisions at a time like this, so can we have a cooling-off period until after the funeral, then we’ll take stock, OK?”
Hugely relieved, I tore up the begging speech and told her that I agreed; we both had a lot to think about and it made sense to give ourselves a few days to reflect. And then, pushing my luck, I added casually, “And, er, am I in the spare bedroom again tonight?”
“Oh.” She had not thought of this. “Er, no, I suppose not. But …” She held up a prohibitory hand. I made a gesture of meek acceptance and she smiled; only for a moment, before she remembered how angry she was supposed to be, but I saw it. After that, we had a drink, watched a film on television, had a number of conversational exchanges in a relatively cordial manner, and went to bed. In my case the last of these processes was complicated by the urgency, given all the circumstances, of concealing the raging hard-on that had been developing all evening. I kissed her goodnight (a respectful peck on the cheek) and turned over ready to go to sleep (my back to her, to be safe).
But I could not doze off. Thoughts of sex crowded unbidden into my mind. Moreover, I could tell from the way she was breathing that Wendy too was still awake and alert.
And then this hand appeared. First she simply put it round me, but then she snuggled up closer and the hand began to explore; first up to stroke the hairs on my chest, then down. When she felt my hugely stiff cock she gave an audible gasp. It was mainly surprise, but there was another component, and it was not the disgust I might have expected. She began to rub her fingers gently up and down the shaft and make little appreciative noises with her mouth.
By now I was randy as hell. I slowly turned over in bed and began cautiously to bring my own hand into play. When it touched her midriff she slapped it playfully, then placed it firmly on her breast.
I swear that never, not even in those halcyon days of courtship, did we make love as we did that night. I could not hold out for long, of course. Wendy, who normally needed lengthy stimulation before she could climax, on this occasion came like a train as I simply exploded inside her. As I proceeded to do what any true gentleman would after late-night coitus (namely fall almost immediately into a profound sleep), I was faintly aware of her sighing contentedly to herself.
She was sound asleep when I awoke at three in the morning from more sexy dreams to find myself yet again with a rampant erection demanding relief. I wanked there and then, fortunately without waking her. The sheets, I thought, were already well besemened with leakage and spillage from our earlier effort, so the evidence would not be detectable in the morning.
Next time I opened my eyes it was to find Wendy pressing a cup of tea on me and telling me with almost girlish excitement that she had woken me up half-an-hour earlier than usual so we should have time for a repeat of last night, “if you can manage it, darling.”
I reached down for a quick check. Apparently I could. And I did.