I stopped at the corner of Churchill Road and Stirling Avenue. Heavy snow was falling and settling on the ground. The old Seaman’s hall clock strikes eight in the distance, it’s chime carrying on the still of the night, across the town.
As I pass the Black Sails pub, a rousing chorus of ‘I’m forever blowing bubbles’ spills out into the street. Through the orange glow the of misted-up windows, I can see Archie in the centre of a small mob of people, glass raised, bellowing at the top of his lungs.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s Zoe.
Zoe: Hi.
Me: Are you ok?
Zoe: Yes
Me: Regrets?
Zoe: No.
If he knew, he would kill me, but I can’t help but enjoy the moment. I have nothing against him personally, I just saw an opportunity and went for it. I feel no guilt at all. I can still smell her on my skin, on my fingers, taste her in my mouth. He may be the main man in the area, feared for his aggressive reputation, but I gave his wife something that he couldn’t.
Zoe: I’ve had a shower and have gone to bed before Alfie comes home.
Me: He’s in the Black Sails.
Zoe: Have you seen him?
Me: I’m staring at him right now.
I stood outside the front door of number fifteen Greenfinch Lane and rang the doorbell. The hallway light illuminated the tiny square panels in the door before it opened. She was wearing a striped pink and white bathrobe and her hair was tied up in a light blue towel. The scent of lavender filled the room, growing stronger as it infused with the cold night air. She didn’t say a word, but her expression was one of confused approval as if she had been half expecting me.
“I was passing and thought I’d take you up on your offer.” The line was rehearsed, and I almost blew it.
“Okay,” she giggled, “I guess you’d better come in then.” The house was warm and inviting, I could hear the sounds of the football match coming from another room.
“I didn’t take you as a Hammers fan,” I joked.
“I’m not; it just got left on,” she said, walking me through to the front room, “Tea or coffee?”
“Coffee please,” I replied, watching her disappear into the small kitchen. The room was comfortable with a huge television dominating one corner, showing me that the first half of the match was coming to an end.
Photographs of Zoe, Archie and various family members were dotted around the walls and side tables. On the wall above the television was a black and white framed photo of Archie. His arms flexed either side of his head, his fists clenched as he displayed the medals that hung around his neck. Those medals now hung over the corners of the picture frame. A newspaper cutting in the bottom corner, reporting his latest triumph, was pressed against the glass. I never saw him fight in the ring, but I have seen his temper after he’s had a few pints.
The half time whistle sounded on the tv, making me check the time on my phone. I quickly estimated that if Archie didn’t go for a post-match pint, I had about an hour and a half before he came home.
When I joined Zoe in the kitchen, she was standing at the kitchen sink with her back to me. She looked up at my reflection mirrored in the window against the blackness of the night outside. I reached out to touch her, feeling the soft towelling of the bathrobe on her shoulders.
“I’m married, Joey,” she whispered, as I, too, looked at our impressions in the black mirror, my hand moved down, tugging at the loose belt around her waist.
“I can’t. I’m married.” I looked out into the darkness as her robe parted, freeing her naked left breast. “Please Joey.” The palm of my hand brushed against the soft tip of her erect nipple, my middle finger circling the pimpled areola.
“This is so wrong; we shouldn't be doing this.” Her fingers remained tightly fixed to the draining board not moving a muscle, and although these words came from her mouth, she hadn’t said the most important one, ‘No’, and she certainly hadn’t made any move to stop me.
With my left hand on her breast, I began to unzip the fly of my jeans with my right. The sudden sharp burr of the metal teeth parting made her shiver and straighten her back. She knew exactly what I was doing, and I was giving her ample time to react, to move, anything to signal to me that she didn’t want this to happen. Instead she remained, continuing to look out into the blackness of the night.
“If you want me to go, I will.”
“I have a husband. This is our home,” she replied, avoiding the question.
“Do you want me to leave?” I pressed, placing my hand on hers and moving it behind her back, “Do you?” I removed my hand and waited. My cock ached inside the confines of my tight blue jeans. I had asked all the questions and it was now down to her to decide.
A loud cheer sounded from the front room which I took to mean that West Ham had just scored. I felt the light touch of her fingertips, tentatively feeling their way over the bulge in my jeans. My hand rested on her bottom, lifting the bathrobe. For the first time, she reacted, turning her face towards me.
“Not here,” she said, shaking her head. Taking my hand, she led me along the hallway, past the door to the front room, and up the stairs.
The bedroom was small and crowded, barely enough room to walk around the large double bed that dominated the floor space. Edging herself to the window, she closed the curtains, shutting out both the night and potential spies.
“You know this is crazy don’t you,” she said, turning to face me. Her bathrobe remained open displaying her half-naked body, from the soft mounds of her hidden breasts, her taut flat stomach down to the thin strip of trimmed pubic hair above her sex.
“What do you want?” I asked, watching her glare across the room at me. Her gaze drawn to the opening in my jeans.
“He’ll kill you, and probably me as well if he finds out,” she countered. I’m not stupid and the thought had crossed my mind on more than one occasion. And she was right of course, this was indeed crazy.
Downstairs I heard the referee blow the final whistle. If my calculations were correct, I guessed that we had about forty-five minutes before Alfie came home. In forty-five minutes time, there had to be distance between me and number fifteen Greenfinch Lane.
“But here you are Joey. That means that you are either stupid or insane. Which one is it?” She placed a hand on my noticeable bulge, rubbing me though the material. There is a look that gives them away. A dreamy, squinting expression through half closed eyes that says everything.
Pushing me down on the bed, she undressed me, taking off my shoes before reaching for the top button of my jeans. I raised my bottom slightly, allowing her to pull my jeans over my hips and drop them down on the floor at her feet. I stared up at her as she gawped down between my legs. That wonderful, ego-inflating moment as they take in what is before them. I often wonder what exactly goes through their minds. Do they mentally compare me to their husband or past boyfriends?
“You’re quite the talk of the town,” she said. Even though we were the only people in the house, she spoke in a low hoarse whisper. “You know how people are around here, Chinese whispers and all that.” Her fingers lightly grazed my skin, barely touching, but I could sense it, slowly drawing an invisible line from my pubic hair along the underside of my erect cock, along the dark brown contour of my shaft, to the swollen, bulbous, purple head. “But I have to say, it’s more impressive than I expected.”