Reconciliation

Reconciliation

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Tags

sex, etc

Summary

Other Authors Back in the day, I was part of a little clique of writers on this site. We would write for and about each other. That probably still happens too. I had some lovely stuff written about me: I was invariably given abs like Arnold and a penis of impossible dimensions. It didn’t help that I had persuaded everyone that I was tall, dark and Scottish (whereas I am actually short, fair and Home-Counties). It was all wonderfully flattering. And flattery is the name of the game. The women in these stories are my fantasy of how I perceived my writer friends. As it turned out, one portrayal was remarkably accurate – but I’m not saying which one! If you are still here, you know who you are. You are all beautiful, sexy ladies. The first story may have had a different title when I put it up here originally. The working title I gave it was ‘Writers’ Forum’, so that is how it appears today. As a story, it’s a kind of dual narrative thing – otherwise, it’s just filth! Sex, sex and more sex. I had fun with it, but it’s not much of a story. The second tale, ‘Moonglow by Moonlight’ is a bit more complex and interesting. As a theatre buff, I consider myself fortunate to have made the acquaintance of many theatre people down the years. The background for this story is based on a tale from an actor friend who toured the States with and English company; he assured me, that these ‘meet the cast’ things he did were a very good way of hooking up with American housewives! The third tale, ‘Reconciliation’, was a real challenge. I wrote this knowing nothing about the author beyond her work. She told me I had portrayed her very well. I think it’s a good story, you be the judge. ‘One Night in Lagos’ was written as a birthday present for a friend on this site. I’m glad to say that the writer really enjoyed it. It’s a bit of froth – silly, sexy fun. Enjoy. I’m sorry if your story isn’t here – I know I wrote others – but these are all I have left.

Tags

sex, etc

Summary

Other Authors
Back in the day, I was part of a little clique of writers on this site. We would write for and about each other. That probably still happens too.
I had some lovely stuff written about me: I was invariably given abs like Arnold and a penis of impossible dimensions. It didn’t help that I had persuaded everyone that I was tall, dark and Scottish (whereas I am actually short, fair and Home-Counties). It was all wonderfully flattering.
And flattery is the name of the game. The women in these stories are my fantasy of how I perceived my writer friends. As it turned out, one portrayal was remarkably accurate – but I’m not saying which one!
If you are still here, you know who you are.
You are all beautiful, sexy ladies.
The first story may have had a different title when I put it up here originally. The working title I gave it was ‘Writers’ Forum’, so that is how it appears today. As a story, it’s a kind of dual narrative thing – otherwise, it’s just filth! Sex, sex and more sex. I had fun with it, but it’s not much of a story.

The second tale, ‘Moonglow by Moonlight’ is a bit more complex and interesting. As a theatre buff, I consider myself fortunate to have made the acquaintance of many theatre people down the years. The background for this story is based on a tale from an actor friend who toured the States with and English company; he assured me, that these ‘meet the cast’ things he did were a very good way of hooking up with American housewives!

The third tale, ‘Reconciliation’, was a real challenge. I wrote this knowing nothing about the author beyond her work. She told me I had portrayed her very well. I think it’s a good story, you be the judge.

‘One Night in Lagos’ was written as a birthday present for a friend on this site. I’m glad to say that the writer really enjoyed it. It’s a bit of froth – silly, sexy fun. Enjoy.

I’m sorry if your story isn’t here – I know I wrote others – but these are all I have left.

Content

Submitted: July 31, 2020

A A A | A A A

Content

Submitted: July 31, 2020

A A A

A A A


So they’d had a fight.

Voices had been raised, words had been said.

Unkind words. Even cruel words. Words said in the fiery heat of anger.

She wished she could take those words back. She wished she could rewind her life so that the stupid argument never started. She wished to God she could control her temper.

But there is no rewind button for life.

 

She lay awake, aware of his back towards her, knowing he was awake too. She wondered if he was thinking about the things he’d said. A knot formed in her chest. Such things! She bit her tongue, determined not to cry, but the tears spilled onto her pillow just the same.

 

Her alarm clock buzzed, but even before she was fully awake she knew he’d gone already. He liked to miss the traffic, so he always went early, while she made sure their daughter was up and ready for school, before, she too, went to work.

 

The working day went well enough: the kids she taught did the things that kids were meant to do; she had chatted and chaffed to her colleagues in the staff room; she dealt with worried parents…all in a day’s work.

 

It was only on the drive home that she felt that hollow apprehension. What would he be like tonight? She shook herself. Am I ready to forgive him?

 

Her younger daughter, Cathy, was at the kitchen table, doing homework while plugged into her smartphone. She kissed Cathy’s head and pointed out a spelling error, to be rewarded with teenage scowl.

“Where’s Dad?” she asked.

The girl grunted and pointed to the stairs.

“Study?”

Nod.

She decided to start on the dinner.

 

They ate in silence.

After the food, Mike, Cathy’s boyfriend, called for her and the pair of them went to a movie. She filled the dishwasher and scrubbed the pans, while her husband sat on the sofa and opened his laptop.

The kitchen table was cleared and she sat and marked today’s workbooks. She found herself looking at him, through the kitchen door, as he scrolled through spreadsheets and checked e-mails. There was some grey in his beard now, but she still liked the look of it. She loved his dark hair and his sea-blue eyes; that crooked manly nose, his full, sensuous lips.

To think of the words that came out of that mouth!

Words said in anger.

Anger.

Her own anger returned. But she still found herself looking at him, hoping for a look from him, even just a glance. Some sign of hope.

 

Promptly at ten, the Mike’s car rolled up the driveway and their daughter was delivered home. Her husband went to the door and chatted to the boy, while he hugged his daughter.

God. She was jealous of that hug. How could she be jealous of her own daughter? But she was. She was concentrating so much on her desire to be touched by her man that she didn’t catch what was being said. Cathy gave her dad a peck on the cheek and called, “’Night, Mom!” before scampering upstairs.

“’Night!”

 

Night.

That was her time.

He was the Early Bird.

He went to bed early and rose with the dawn. He’d run or push weights. Shower, then brew coffee on the hob, Italian style. He’d bring her a cup and dress as she was waking. Sometimes, when work was slack he’d bring coffee for them both and slip into bed, naked, beside her.

She was the Nite Owl.

Night was her time. Her time to think, to write, to create.

At night, in the dark, silent house, she’d create worlds in story - invent fantasies, tell tales or pen poetry. She’d always wanted to write, and write she did, into the night. When she came to the bedroom in the early hours, her husband would usually wake briefly, to watch her undress. Almost invariably when she got into bed, he would put an arm round her waist, and let his fingers stroke her stomach under her nightshirt, or he’d pass his hand over her bare bottom, then snuggle close and spoon until they both fell asleep.

 

That night he’d gone to bed soon after their daughter had gone up.

Without a word.

Twenty-four hours and not a single word.

 

She went to the study immediately after and logged on.

There was a website she used. It specialised in erotica, which seemed to be the area which engendered the most interest in web fiction. Her stories might contain sex, but she covered many genres in her writing. She marvelled at how some people could write such explicit material, whereas she would dance around the sexual act in her tales.

The site brought her some comfort that night, all her usual friends had been posting, and there were some nice comments on the story she was working on. Some comments were from an English writer whose work she quite liked, so she decided to read the story he had posted – it was about a mutual friend from the site.

It was the usual long-winded stuff this guy wrote – he’d never use one or two words when a couple of thousand would do the same job! But among his verbosity was a lot of humour, and when it came to writing sex scenes….

Whether it was the warmth of the late spring night, whether it was the fact she hadn’t felt her husband touch her for a day or whether it was just the guy’s choice of words, this story had touched her deep. She felt a tingle, low in her body, she felt oddly warm. She shook herself. Silly! She opened the file for her current story and got to work.

The story was coming along nicely, her heroine was alone, but had taken the law into her own hands and was fighting back. She enjoyed a violent episode in her tale, as her character exacted some righteous revenge.

But she was distracted that night. Would her husband wake? Would he watch her undress? Would she feel his warm hand on her belly?

 

No.

She shouldn’t have hoped.

As she lay in the dark, her back to her husband’s, she felt desire. That tingle had grown. She found her fingers toying with her pubic hairs. She wanted to touch herself…

No she didn’t!

She wanted to be touched!

She was angry with herself for even thinking that masturbation could fill that chasm. She put her hands both under her head, and waited in the dark for sleep to come.

 

The next morning she emerged from a dream with something brushing against her hair. She could smell coffee. A bubble of excitement grew in her mind, only to pop when she heard the sound of the front door closing.

Her alarm clock buzzed and she reached for it.

Her stretching hand touched a warm cup.

A cup of coffee.

Hob brewed.

Italian style.

 

The kids at school were sweet that day, the staff very jolly and to cap it all, at the end of the day an old grandpa, picking up one of her class, said, “Isn’t your teacher pretty?” She had blushed scarlet.

Traffic was heavy on the way home and she put on the radio, the song that came on first thrilled her to the core. It was ‘Kiss’, by Prince.

It was the song that was playing that first night in his room.

They’d been lovers for a couple of weeks when he finally tidied up his room enough to have her round. He’d just bought a CD player and wanted to show it off to her. The first album he’d played was ‘Parade’ by Prince. They had been making out, it was getting heated and it was that time, awkward for her at that age, to get undressed. The track changed to ‘Kiss’.

 

You don’t have to be beautiful

 

She had never considered herself beautiful, certainly not then, with her short mousey hair, her round face and her glasses (the kids at her school called her Velma!). But she must have had something…

 

To turn me on

 

And he was so obviously, outstandingly, turned on. She had only pulled her jeans off, but he was buck naked, his erection rigid and almost flat against his trim tummy. She became embarrassed and self-conscious, but he took her hands and danced with her around his tiny room. A naked Fred Astaire with a swaying hard-on, gently swinging a reluctant Ginger Rogers in her blouse and panties. As he swung and dipped and sang, he undid a button, or popped a bra clip, until she was as naked as he.

When the song came to an end, he said, “We got to have that again.” He pressed the repeat button and ‘Kiss’ played again, and again, and again while they made love on his single bed, on his floor, on his chair and finally back in his bed.

 

The memory of that night made her squirm in her seat. She was desperate to see him now. As she swung the car into their road and up their drive she resolved to apologise, to get on her knees if need be. She was now so desperate for his touch.

She would forgive his cruel words, she would forgive his blank expressions, any sin he had ever committed, she would forgive, just as long as he would hold her in his arms.

 

Cathy was, as usual, pouring over her books at the table.

“Where’s your dad?” she enquired.

“Oh,” said Cathy, “I got a text, he has to work on, he said have dinner, don’t wait up.”

“Why didn’t he…?”

But Cathy shrugged and went back to her homework.

 

The Nite Owl typed in the study, the story had taken an unexpected turn. The violence she’d included in her last chapter was good, was right. But now a change was needed. There was still anger and loss in the story, but hope was beginning to emerge.

 

At about eleven she heard the front door open. She stood up and went to the stairs. Her husband looked drained and grey, he always did when he had to put in a 16 hour day. She said his name:

“Francisco…”

He looked at her, his blue eyes dull with fatigue and held his hand up to her, “Not now, honey. I’m sorry. Okay? I’m dead beat. I just want a shower and bed. I’m really sorry. Believe me. Please. Just go back upstairs, eh?”

 

Her first reaction was hurt.

Had he just brushed her off?

She was ready to go down on her knees and ask for his forgiveness…but how could he know that? And hadn’t he just said ‘sorry’? Twice he had said ‘sorry’. Hadn’t he looked in her eyes?

She wanted to rush to him and get in that shower with him, but she knew better. When Franco was this tired and strung out, he was poor company.

 

The Nite Owl returned to her writing. Maybe she should bring the hero back from his business trip to Dallas? Maybe the heroine shouldn’t have to fend for herself any more.

 

In the bedroom at two a.m. she peeled off her clothes, but Franco didn’t wake. That was usual when he worked long days, but it made her sad, all the same. She pulled on her nightshirt and climbed into bed.

A warm hand passed over her bare buttocks, and snaked its way under her shirt to her belly; she was pulled into a spooning hug.

 

 

In the morning she was wakened by a kiss on the head and a quiet call of “coffee!”

She struggled into conscientiousness as Franco tied his tie in the mirror.

“I might be late tonight, Friday traffic. Can you shop?”

“Huh,” she asked, “Shop? For what?”

“Mike’s coming home with Cathy after school, I said I’d cook him some proper Italian. Can you shop?”

“Sure, Francisco. What do you need?”

“Sorry, honey, I’ve got to dash. I’ll text you with my shopping list, okay?” he kissed her lips, warmly, “And turn your phone on, darling. Please.” Another kiss and he was gone.

Fool, she thought, but not unkindly. He knew she wasn’t allowed to have her phone turned on at school.

She sipped her coffee.

Something was nagging at the back of her mind.

She jumped out of bed.

She went looking for her purse. Dammit. He was right. She was right. All that nonsense at the end of school, she’d forgotten to turn her phone back on.

 

And there were the messages.

So many voice messages. Each one more desperate than the last.

Words of apology. Regret. Shame.

And in the last few the voice mails words of longing, and tenderness.

Words of love.

 

Cathy found her crying by the counter, still in her nightshirt. She put an arm round her mother in a gentle hug.

“Come on, mum. Don’t cry.” She cooed.

“I feel so stupid,” she sobbed, “So selfish.”

“But we all do, mum.” Cathy consoled, “One time or another.”

 

The store was packed with Friday shoppers, so by the time she got home, Franco was already there. So were Mike and Cathy. That was a pity, she wanted some time alone with her man.

Franco liked the kitchen to himself when he was cooking, but she couldn’t keep away. She found excuses to be around him. And he didn’t chase her this time. As they passed at the counter she felt his hand reach out to touch hers. When he was occupied with chopping or stirring, found herself touching him. Franco made appreciative noises as she stroked his shoulders, his back, his ass…

She felt good. This was how it was meant to be. Well almost. She wished Cathy had gone to Mike’s house for dinner, but this was fine. For now.

“Do you want to make the salad, honey?” Franco smiled, kissing the top of her head.

“Okay.”

He held out a cucumber with a lascivious grin, “You know what to do with this….”

Usually she ignored Franco’s more crude flirtations, but tonight she played along. Holding the long vegetable in a fist, she stroked it saucily on her face, before placing it between her breasts, giving her husband her most salacious smile.

“Fu-uck!” Franco gasped.

At that moment, Cathy came into the kitchen, “Mum? What are you doing?”

“Salad!” she muttered, reddening.

“O – kay.” Said her daughter, in obvious doubt.

Pinching a piece of chopped pepper, Cathy left, sniggering.

She wasn’t the only one. The adults, who were bent to their tasks of salad or caponata, were shaking with shared, silent laughter.

 

Dinner was lovely (of course) and Mike turned out to be quite a charming young man for a seventeen-year-old. For one thing he was a comics geek, which gave Franco and he lots to talk about. The evening passed with conversation and laughter until just after ten, when Franco announced that he would drive Mike home.

“You can come too, Cathy,” he said, “And I promise not to look when you kiss goodnight.”

“Da-ad!”

And off they drove, into the night.

 

The night.

Her time.

She was the Nite Owl.

This night she would not create a world of words, but a world of carnal delight.

Nite Owl went straight to the bedroom, she drew the curtains against the rest of the world and found some candles. These she lit and placed around the room.

When it came to sex, Nite liked to get down and get with it, but she knew Franco liked a bit of a show. Which was why he bought her lingerie - on special occasions -  like Christmas, or St Valentine’s or days ending in ‘y’. She thought he was crazy, but she liked the effect it had on her husband. Most nights, she preferred to be out of it, skin to skin.

She chose the gold and black basque and brief set and silk stockings. Having dressed, she regarded herself in the mirror. She giggled. Look at me. The shimmering, glittery panties were practically transparent, you could count her individual pubic hairs though them! Good. That’s what he liked. That would get him going. That would put him under her spell.

She heard the car on the driveway and lay down on the bed. She couldn’t stop her breath quickening as she heard his footsteps on the stairs. She put her hands behind her head and stretched out as he came through the door.

Hah!

His face was a picture!

“Oh wow,” he breathed.

Nite smiled. His eyes were filled with desire. He was hooked. Now for some fun.

Franco approached the bed, but Nite put a foot up to his chest and pushed him back.

“Darling, please, I need to say…”

“I don’t want words, Fraser,” she purred, “I want action.”

“But…”

“Strip, Francisco. I want to see you…”

Her husband smiled, she loved his smiles.

He slowly unbuttoned his shirt, looking in her eyes all the time. No - not at her body, not at her silly underwear – in her eyes.

He took his time pulling the shirt off, oh his body still turned her on – the years might have taken away his slim, ripped physique, but there was a masculine power in his big frame. She felt herself moisten.

Franco whipped his belt out of its loops and unbuttoned his pants, letting them drop to the floor. Oh those legs! Nite Owl heard herself sigh. She ogled the bulge growing in his shorts. Oh yes, she was having the effect she expected.

Franco turned away from her, and pulled his shorts, inchingly over his hard buttocks. Nite pulled up her knees and let them fall apart, giving Franco a fine view of her hot vulva, straining at the thin material of her panties. He turned back towards her, his tumescing penis bouncing slightly in front of him. God, she was wet now. But she had to keep control.

“On your knees!” she commanded.

Franco dropped to his knees without a word.

“Would you kiss my feet, Francisco?” she asked.

“My love, I will kiss you anywhere. Everywhere. As long as you want me to.”

“Prove it!”

She stretched a stockinged foot towards her husband, who crawled towards it on his knees, took it tenderly in his hands and kissed. He kissed and nuzzled her foot, gently nibbling her toes – but, being Francisco Fraser, he wasn’t content with just a foot.

As he ministered to Nite Owl’s foot with his mouth, one hand gently stroked the underside of her calf, moving up to rotate a stroking finger on the hollow at the back of her knee, then running his fingers slowly up the back of her thigh.

Nite Owl shuddered when his fingers moved from stocking to bare flesh. Franco felt her tremor, and leisurely tickled the top of her thigh, taking great pleasure in the heat of her sex and the stray hairs at the side of her soaking knickers.

Mouth followed hand, as Franco kissed his way up Nite Owl’s leg, pausing briefly at her knee, before making his way to cool flesh at the stocking tops.

Nite Owl bent her head and watched her husband grin as he eyed her cunny through the thin material of her panties, now shiny with her juices as well as shimmering with glitter. His kissed her sex through the little garment, letting his tongue linger and turn. Nite Owl felt a low moan come from deep within her as Franco nibbled and mouthed at her.

“Oh God,” she moaned, “Oh God. Off. Off.” She put her hands at the top of her panties but Franco batted then gently away.

He leaned up on his knees, between her legs, and with agonising slowness, rolled the pretty knickers down, enjoying the gradual exposure of her straggling pubes and her dripping gash.

With the panties discarded, Franco lowered his head between the legs of the Nite Owl once more. He put her thighs on his shoulders as he tongued her twat, from her taint to her clit, in long strokes. He then waggled his tongue side to side in rapid little flicks. Nite Owl howled and grabbed his hair, shoving her hips towards him, pushing herself onto his face. When he used his lips to nibble and pull her flaps; Nite locked her thighs around his head and grasped the bedclothes in her fists. Then he slowly, deliberately, began to worm his tongue towards her clitoris.

Nite Owl’s breathing was beginning to quicken and she ran her hands up the spangly corseted front of the basque. Her fingers found the rim of the bra cups and hauled down, freeing her tits to the night’s air. She pawed and squeezed her bare breasts, pinching and flicking her nipples. Oh God. She was close. Franco sensed her joy begin to peak, and sucked on her little love bud, biting gently.

Nite Owl’s orgasm exploded through her body like a summer storm, and she drenched Franco’s face with a torrential gush of her juices.

As her body relaxed, Franco stood up, his face shiny, his beard wet and eyed her, glowing in the candle-light.

“Can you forgive me?” he asked, quietly.

“Always, my darling, always.” panted his wife, “Can you forgive me?”

“My love,” he replied, “There is nothing to forgive.”

“That’s good, sweetheart.” Nite Owl smiled at him and then noticing that Franco’s cock was now standing hard, grinned and said, “Can we fuck now?”

She placed her hands on either side of her swollen sex and with her fingers, spread apart her wet, pink lips. She watched as Franco rolled back his foreskin; as he exposed his shiny glans a clear bead of pre-come blobbed to the floor.

As he entered her slowly and gently, Nite Owl thrilled at the feel of his probing penis. He kissed her and she tasted herself on his mouth, his tongue, his beard; this sensation always, at the same time, disgusted and excited her. She wrapped her legs around his hips and pulled him into her.

As they rocked in that perfect rhythm of old lovers, she felt the hairs on his chest rubbing on her erect nipples. The feeling sent little shocks from her chest to her core. She dug her nails into his back and he gasped in pained pleasure.

She had him.

All of him.

He was hers and she was his and this was how it was supposed to be.

She felt his dexterous fingers pop the catches at her back and he pushed himself up on one arm. In a quick, fluid movement she was free of the shiny undergarment and he was on top of her, his skin against hers. Moving, rocking, faster and faster.

The came together in a juddering burst, his hot semen splattering her vaginal walls and her juices soaking his root and balls.

They cuddled together until their breathing calmed and the tingling sensations faded.

Nite Owl kissed Franco’s ear and whispered, “Promise me something?”

“Anything, my daring, anything at all.”

“Promise me that we’ll never fight again.”

Franco lifted his head and gazed lovingly into her eyes. “I’m sorry, my love. That’s a promise I can’t make. It’s a promise neither of us could keep. Please, ask again.”

“Promise me that when we have a fight, we’ll make up like this?”

Franco considered, and smiled.

“I promise…..but….. don’t we always?”

 

 

 

 

 


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