Friday Night, Saturday Morning

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It’s Friday night and I’m sitting in the conservatory, watching the repeats of the earlier Superleague game.

It’s after midnight, and the girls are in bed. I can hear what’s going on in their bedroom via the baby alarm; they’re seven and nine, but their bedroom is at the front of the house and the conservatory at the back, so we still use the baby alarm.

Karen’s out. She’s doing the rounds of the pubs with her workmates, celebrating one of the lasses coming back to work after childbirth with a drinking session in Durham city centre. I’m not really baby sitting; the girls are too old for that. I’m just having a beer and watching the sports channels. It’s a dad’s equivalent of multi tasking, with the silence of the girls bedroom as a kind of empty soundtrack. It’s like meditation, listening to silence and interpreting it as signals that everything’s OK.

It’s not far off half-time in the game when I hear Karen come in. She comes in the front door, at the diagonally opposite corner of the house to the conservatory, and heads straight into the kitchen. I’m bored enough with the rugby to go across to meet her, through the office and the dining room.

She’s standing at the worktop, mixing sparkling mineral water and apple juice in a glass. She doesn’t look that drunk. Tipsy maybe, but not falling down drunk. Her lipstick has gone, and if she’d been more sober I’d have made a joke of that, but not tonight. Her hair is tousled out of its normal feathered bob, not in a ‘through a hedge backwards’ kind of way, but in a way that’s not usual for Karen. She looks like she’s had an energetic night. I’ve seen her spend five minutes using the vanity mirror in the car to put her hair right after a walk round Tesco’s, so maybe energetic isn’t the right word.

Then I notice the mark.

It’s a white stain on the front of her trousers. They’re trousers she’s incredibly fond of; a soft cheesecloth like material, but brown so that they’re not so see through. The stain’s the shape and size of a teaspoon, the handle part running down towards the thigh. Instinctively, in that pattern matching way that our brains work, I know it’s a man made stain, evidence that she’s been with a guy.

What to do? I could ignore it, but I’m angry and miserable at the same time. We haven’t had sex in two weeks, and we haven’t had good sex in months. It’s been a bone of contention between us. Karen’s become nervous and fretful in bed; the girls will hear, or she has to be up for work, or it’s the wrong time, or a hundred other reasons. None of them are the root cause. The root cause is we’ve stopped trying.

Why’ve we stopped trying? Because it’s easier than arguing. Because arguments about different tastes or how we feel about each other scare us both. I have my tastes in sex, and Karen feels they’re too different to what she wants. It’s not a frequent argument; it’s been too fraught when we’ve had the argument to repeat the experience. That doesn’t mean the argument has gone away; we both fear the intensity of the argument and what it might say about a relationship we both enjoy. Nothing about those arguments made me think that Karen would cheat on me though. I tried to laugh it off, to make clear I’d seen the stain but thought nothing of it. She took one look down and ran out of the room; by the time I’d followed her upstairs she’d bolted the bedroom door.

I was pissed off, at myself as well as at her. Did I mishandle the situation? I didn’t make a fuss, didn’t stamp and shout, just went downstairs to the conservatory and watched the rest of the rugby. Not much else I could do. Not without waking the girls. So I watched rugby, set the alarm on my phone and tried to sleep with a sofa cushion for a pillow. It wasn’t the pillow that kept me half awake; it was the reality of a relationship that we both liked too much to give up on while not wanting to give up enough of ourselves to make it work.

I needed the alarm set because I’d promised to drop the girls at their grandmother’s house at half seven on Saturday morning. They were going to spend the weekend at Haggerston Castle; all we had to do was drop them off and let gran sarıyer escort take over. After four hours of fitful tossing and turning on the conservatory sofa I managed to get the girls up, dressed and to their gran’s on time. If she noticed that I was a little dishevelled I think Gran assumed I was suffering from drink. She’s not always thought the best of me.

I stopped on the way home and bought a paper. It gave me more time to wonder what on earth I’d say to Karen when I arrived. I’m not in the paper reading habit, not since the web happened. I stood in front of the rack and tried to work out which paper summed me up. Guardian? Daily Mail? I settled for the Journal, complete with a weighty property supplement in full colour. I did ask myself what Karen would be feeling or if she’d have anything to say to me, but mainly I used the time to think about how I felt, and what our marriage said about me.

She was in the kitchen when I arrived, dressed in her gym gear; grey sweatpants, a yellow tee shirt with a round neck and thick leg warmers above her trainers. Her hair was pinned back by steel hair grips, away from her face, tight around her ears. If I had to guess I’d have said she hadn’t had a good night’s sleep either.

She was making toast and coffee, and took an extra mug out of the cupboard when I came in. It seemed natural for me to sit down on a stool and wait for her to decide to speak. So I sat and waited while she fussed with the coffee pot, meticulously wrapping a paper towel around it, depressing the plunger slowly and methodically. It was a study in precision and tidiness. She put the mug in front of me without any eye contact, and went back to stand on the other side of the island unit, as if she was putting space between us.

I waited. I didn’t figure there was anything to be gained by making the running. Better to let her start the conversation. She started to speak, paused and then started again.

“I’m not going to argue or have to defend myself…”

I took a swig of coffee, wondered if I’d conjured the bitter flavour out of my subconscious, then put the cup down and picked my words.

“That wasn’t what I had in mind.”

“So what did you have in mind?” The stress on ‘did’ suggested she genuinely didn’t know.

“You were the one who seemed upset last night Karen, not me. I’m just keen to see you be happy…”

“So why did you have to comment about it? Why couldn’t you just ignore it?”

If you think about it, feeling bitter is a strange expression. We don’t say we feel sweet when it’s something we like; so why do we say we feel bitter? Probably because you can taste the bitterness that comes to your mind at times like this. There was nothing wrong with the coffee. It’s bile and inner hurt that burns in your throat with the flavour of stomach acid.

“It only has to be ignored if it’s a bad thing. What if it’s not a bad thing?”

Karen looked away again, as if the answer was outside the kitchen window.

“If I did something wrong, it’s because something’s wrong in our marriage. If I didn’t do something wrong, then I didn’t know it was okay to do it and that means something’s wrong…”

I smiled at her. I couldn’t help it.

“You call me complicated…”

She screwed up her face, angry and yet unable to hold the mood.

“Don’t take the piss. I don’t know what’s going on…”

I had to bite down on a retort. A sharp retort that seemed natural but which didn’t reflect my mood.

“I don’t know what happened Karen, but I know that I don’t want to argue.”

She shook her head.

“It’s like you don’t care.”

I thought long and hard about all the arguments, the rows about how I talked too much about emotions, desires, planning and preparing for the best possible outcomes for us, for our family. She always said it was as if I’d brought my work methods home. I can’t help it; I manage projects for a living, projects that fail if you try to skip steps or act on instinct. I’ve got away with the line about the job choosing me because of how I am at my esenyurt escort last three job interviews. It’s clichéd stuff, but it has a basis in reality.

“No, I care a lot, but maybe not in the way you expect…”

She started to snap, but lowered her voice.

“So what do you feel?”

“I could turn it around Kaz. How do you feel? Did you get what you want?”

She laughed at me.

“Do you think I wanted him to come on my trousers?”

We both laughed and a crack appeared in the ice.

“You must have turned him on too much.”

“Maybe he was getting turned on by Anji getting shagged from behind by his mate…”

“Were you?”

“What?”

“Turned on by watching Anji getting shagged…”

She’s angry that I’ve even asked, but I feel I’ve got the right to persist.

“Go on Karen, tell the truth – did you enjoy it?”

I don’t want to look as if I’m standing up and pacing, but that’s how it feels. I’m acting on instinct and haven’t felt so nervous since Bryony and Alison were born.

Since Karen seems nervous as well I go over to her to try and reassure her. She flinches, but accepts my hands on her waist. I realise she’s genuinely nervous of me, which given that I don’t know what to do next is comical in its own way. My voice seems not my own.

‘It’s not my fault you’re upset. I’m not the one who went out last night. Just tell me what happened.’

I can feel the tension in her stomach muscles changing. She’s moved her hips back into line and is standing with her back straighter. It feels more natural.

“I don’t like talking about sex..” I gently squeeze her waist with my hands. I’m reminding her that it’s me who’s there.

“You don’t have a choice now Kaz. Talk about it or lose my trust.” I didn’t mean that to sound as threatening as it did but once it’s said it’s as if she gives in a little.

“Some of the girls had gone home. Me and Anji went to the Tavern. It was just some guys, students I think…”

Anji’s one of Karen’s workmates who doesn’t fit in to the usual conformist pattern of bank staff. She’s got long dark hair that fits with her goth look, and a sense of humour you don’t expect to find behind a bank counter. I’ve fantasized about her. There’s a playfulness in her smile and her manner that leads you astray, that makes thoughts of her naked seem the logical next step. When we bumped into her in the marketplace one day last summer she was wearing a tee shirt that had the words ‘I’m up here’ emblazoned across her tits. You can understand why.

I squeezed Kaz’s tummy again, letting my hands rest under her tee shirt on the waistband of her joggers. She went on.

“It was just a laugh at first, teasing these young lads. They looked like rugby players or rowers. Anji knew about the alley by the market…”

I slipped my hand up under her shirt and cupped her boob through her bra. She started to resist with her right arm but I pulled it away. She stiffened and we wrestled for a moment, until she realised that both her wrists fitted within my right hand. I didn’t twist or force her wrists, just held her hands behind her back while I pulled her bra down below her breasts.

“Any time you think you can say no to me Kaz, just remember what you did last night, and your little tantrum when you came in…”

The threatening tone surprised me again. Of all the competing voices in my head this one was the surprise. The angry voice that wanted to rage at her I expected. The cold dismissive voice that wanted to push her away sounded just like the voice I’d used when I split up with Carly Reynolds in my first year at university. The angry petulant voice reminded me of being thirteen and not getting a birthday present I wanted. But this voice was new to me, thrilling as well as satisfying.

Cupping her breasts in my hands, feeling her nipples stiffen between my fingers I realised that her reaction was unexpected too. There was no resistance, no complaints, just acceptance. The voice was coming naturally to me, as if I knew that it would be lost if I tried to force it.

‘There’s avrupa yakası escort more of the story to tell Kaz…’

Eleven years of marriage and I’d never realised her nipples could stretch so much when they were stiff. Eleven years of not knowing that she would bend forward when I pressed against her. She was hesitant again, but continued when I squeezed my arms tighter around her.

‘Anji was so confident, so quick. We’d been out there for no more than a couple of minutes and she had him in her mouth, then it was on with the condom and she was bent over facing the wall, letting him have her.’

I used my hands on her hips to move Kaz so my hard-on was between the cheeks of her arse. By

the way she moved she could feel it even through the layers of my jeans and her joggers. Pushing my left hand under the waistband of her joggers at the front provoked her to press back against me; squeezing her breast harder with my right hand got her talking again.

‘They guy I was with was clumsy, his mate knew what to do to Anji but mine wasn’t sure, even when…’

She paused as I used my hand to pull her thong aside, but the wetness I found suggested I hadn’t gone too far.

‘Even when I got his cock out he couldn’t make his mind up, and I was thinking I couldn’t just bend over like Anji and then I felt him coming and I was stood there watching.’

I pressed harder with my finger between her pussy lips, opening her up.

‘So you couldn’t just bend over like Anji…’

She shook her head, uncertain in her passivity but also unmoving. Don’t ask me how, but I knew what to do. Left hand out of her joggers, twist her so she was square on to the island unit then use my left hand at the scruff of her neck to bend her over the unit, twisting her tee shirt into a restraint. It felt ungainly, pushing her pants and knickers down, freeing my cock from my jeans,standing on the crotch of her trousers to get them below her knees so I could get her thighs far enough apart to push my cock into her. It was an easy position once I was past that initial stage though, one arm straight, holding her down, the other positioning her thighs to accommodate me.’So come on Kaz, what did Anji do when you were watching her being fucked?’ I eased the pressure on her neck enough to move her head.

‘Don’t make me Jon, please…’ I pulled my cock out of her, slapped each arse cheek hard, as if I’d been doing it every day of our marriage, then got my hand under her hips so I could guide her back onto my cock. She let out a breath, and swore. It was a new experience for me, to be able to make her react to my cock. I did it again, and felt harder and stronger as it got the same reaction again.

‘She was telling him to fuck her, to make her cum like a slut…’

I could picture it all so clearly. I’d wanked over Anji in my head, kneeling on a bed and offering me her pussy. In those fantasies she was always the opposite of Kaz; where Kaz was quiet, almost passive, fantasy Anji was noisy.

In real life Karen was noisy. Noises I hadn’t heard since before the children were born. Noises that made me want to slam my cock into her harder, to make her cry out louder. When I stopped pushing, just used my hands on her body, her hips, her arse, she wriggled and whimpered. No assertion from her, no attempt to avoid my touch, just an inviting calmness that made me want to make her react. So I acted. I used the fingers of my right hand to stroke her clit, wet the thumb of my left hand in her pussy juices then slipped it into her arse, and resumed fucking her. Hard, long strokes, using the time when I was pulling my cock out of her to let my fingers work on her. She started to make guttural noises, choking coughing noises that sounded like words she refused to let out. I pulled my cock back out, took my hands away, slapped her arse hard.

‘Say it Kaz. Say it.’

‘Please Jon…’

Another slap on her arse, leaving a clear red handprint.

‘Just fuck me Jon, I love, you, just fuck me….’

So I did. In about a minute I was coming, but she’d beaten me to it. I dug my hands into her skin as I shook and came. I bent forward, tried to catch my breath, and started to mutter, disconnecte dwords that I’m not sure belonged to me but that sounded true as soon as I said them.

‘I’m going to fuck yo like this again…’

And even as the last of my cum trickled out of my cock, she made it pulse.

‘I know Jon, I know…’

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