Love To Die For 19/27 ON THE BEACH

The disco on the beach was quiet on a weekday night in May. Joey nursed a San Miguel. Helen and Harry rocked to Like a Virgin. She danced a lot with her hands and he wondered if the sudden brushes were accidental. He should have known better by now but Mr Donne’s voice in his head reminded him ‘the most dangerous thing to believe is what you want to believe.’ True he knew, in love, war, and business.  The crowd thinned until just the two of them were left, Joey out of their minds, Wham in their ears. Helen moved closer. Her body touched his. He smelt the chocolate of the bombadillas on her breath, heard her careless whisper, ‘You make me wet.’

‘Let me feel,’ Harry whispered back, guiding her to the darkest corner. He had form on dance-floors. Pulling her hips back, she put her hand down and opened the front of her jeans. His hand went down as hers came up, a long squeeze, and then on, down by the down. He felt the delicious hot juice and swollen lips. She pressed herself against his fingers. They had stopped pretending to dance and he was nearly bursting his pants.

‘Going to come,’ she breathed in his ear.

‘Let’s fuck,’ he breathed back. She kissed him hard on the mouth, stepped back, zipped up her jeans, said, ‘Follow me,  not too close. The night…’

‘Has a thousand eyes.’

Helen was walking along the shore, shoes in hand, bare feet plashing.  ‘Don’t know about this,’ she said as Harry caught up. ‘Haven’t done it before.’


‘Cheated. You?’ She knew he was married from the information exchanges over dinner. He shrugged. ‘What’s cheating?’

‘Sex with someone else.’

‘You never thought about it?’ he challenged.

‘Thinking isn’t touching.’

‘Never kissed?’ She didn’t reply.

‘Kissing’s touching,’ he said. ‘Who draws the line? Kissing, watching, wanking…I knew a teacher shagging his student. When his wife found out he said he hadn’t cheated because he didn’t come inside her.’  Helen laughed. He liked her laugh. Silvery tinkly, different from her husky voice.  A slight breeze blew blonde about her face.

‘He doesn’t like me wanking. Won’t let me have my fantasies. I loved telling my fantasies to my first boyfriend. Older guy, let me express myself.’

‘What fantasies?’

‘Oh, you know, bondage, rape, horses.’

Harry didn’t know. ‘Horses?’

‘Stallions, mounting me from behind, stretching me to the limit. Unicorns. Started with my pony. Used to ride it bareback, feel its spine up me, like I was riding Pegasus.’

‘My sister was in the Pony Club.’ No, wrong thought, banished.

 ‘We’re there,’ she indicated a narrow path in trees at the edge of the beach. ‘Should go in. He doesn’t trust me.’

‘Any reason?’

‘PMS. Paranoid Machismo Syndrome. Sometimes when I’ve been out with clients he sniffs my underwear. If it wasn’t for the money I’d be gone.’

‘Maybe he just likes to sniff ’em’?

‘Then he’d sniff ’em other times too, wouldn’t he?’

‘I guess.’  They reached the trees, went a few steps along the path. Ahead he saw the outline of a house, dark against the sky as the stars lost their sparkle.

‘Don’t come any further, Harry.’ Not don’t go any further. She kissed him softly on the lips, like a goodnight promise. More to come? He to come? He put his arms round her. She stiffened, then relaxed. He relaxed, then stiffened.

‘Oh,’ she murmured. ‘That feels nice.’

‘I want you, Helen,’ he said.

‘Have to go,’ she said, turning around in his arms.

‘Have to come,’ he replied, running his hands under her shirt, lifting her bra and clasping her breasts. Not so big but nice fit.  Her shoes fell to the ground. He could feel her hand tugging at her zip then going into her panties. He put one of his hands over it and felt her rubbing herself. Her other hand was on the breast he wasn’t squeezing, the back of her head on his shoulder as she stood jerking, her gasps loud in his ear. He brought both hands to her waist, pushed her jeans and underwear down to her knees, and bent her forward. She put her hands behind and spread her cheeks.

‘Fuck me, Harry.’ It was the work of a moment to free his raging hardness and enter her and just a few hard pumps for them to reach ecstasy together. He clamped his hand over her mouth to stifle her cries as his juice ran down her legs. They stood enjoying the joined-up moment before erection subsided and slipped out. She turned, took his face in both hands and kissed him again.  ‘Needed that. Thanks,’ picking up her shoes, stumbling towards the house, pulling up her jeans…


*Yes, there’s more to this story, and many more Erotic Adventures of Captain Harry West, so read on with a click here!

Extract from a Story a Week for 27 Weeks, so come back soon – or take the short cut and buy them now with a click!

Coming Soon: Taoist Tantra, Sexual Secrets of Love

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Love to Die For 18/27 On the Bus

‘What is your style, Linda?’ Harry asked.

‘Solo, really, and watching. Like now. And I like it when I know I’m going to be alone in the house and I can really go for it.’

‘Why alone? Sounds to me like you can go for it with a full house.’

‘Not the same…once going home on the bus,’ she panted, ‘after a hot session with the boys at Quelle Desire, I was thinking about being home alone and what I was going to do to myself. How I was going to go in the door, take off my shoes and hang my coat on the pin in the hallway, feel the carpet under my feet as I go up the stairs, open the door to my bedroom, put on my music, stand in front of my full-length mirror, start a slow, slow strip.

‘Watch myself take each piece of clothing off, starting with my shirt, undoing the buttons, one by one, when it’s open leaning forward to see my breasts, reaching behind to loosen my bra, seeing my tits, feeling them get tight and swell, rubbing my bra on them, taking it off, rubbing myself with it, letting it drop.

‘Now it’s just my panties, pulling them aside to see my hair, I love my hair, it’s so dark and thick and curly and when I’m hot I can just see the lips…it takes a while for me to get wet but when it happens I slide my panties down my legs, and my jeans, and step out of them, so now it’s just me, my open shirt showing glimpses of my boobs, and my hair.

‘I’m about to imagine myself spreading my lips wide at the mirror when I feel movement against my leg. I open my eyes. The girl in the seat beside me on the bus is looking straight ahead, but I see her hand in her skirt, moving. I’ve been doing the same, caressing myself.

‘We’re on the top deck in the front bench. She’s by the window, I’m in the aisle seat. She’s not moving much, nor am I, but now our knees are pressing together. It’s not just our hands but our hips moving. We’re pretending not to notice each other but I can hear her breathing. I realize I’m breathing quite hard too. We don’t know if anyone can see us.

‘I have my coat on my lap and like by accident I pick it up and put it down so it covers both our laps. I feel her move, she’s lifting her butt, pulling her panties down, I put my hand on her leg and feel her hand rubbing, makes me rub harder, faster, now we’re in rhythm, soon we come, keeping quiet, just our breath through our noses, lips clamped tight shut, her hand’s on my leg now, squeezing hard…

* * *

*Yes, there’s more to this story, and many more Erotic Adventures of Captain Harry West, so read on with a click here!

Extract from a Story a Week for 27 Weeks, so come back soon – or take the short cut and buy them now with a click!

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Love to Die For 17/27 TOP OF THE POPS

Linda, with Liza Minnelli spiky black hair, snow-white face, bright red lips, turned up for work early next morning and jumped in with them.  Legs & Co started their routine and Linda’s skirt went up and her hand down.  ‘Ooh, I fancy that Gill,’ said she, dancing the moves back at the TV, and ‘Yeah, we could all do whatever we liked with each other as long as we didn’t bug the neighbors or tell anyone.’

‘What was whatever we liked?’ Harry wondered as he stood up and his zip came down.

‘Isn’t he beautiful?’  Is she talking about me, thought Harry. Not DLT, surely? He glanced from her rising tee-shirt showing perky breasts and dark, dark nipples to the screen, and Freddie Mercury.

‘Yes,’ he agreed.

‘Everyone fancies him. Mom’s got a picture of him on her wall and I heard them both shouting Freddie so loud my brother and I ran in to see what was happening. She and Dad were just coming together.’  Both rubbing with enthusiasm by now, eyes flicking back and forth from screen to hands to genitals, Harry’s jeans had reached his knees and Linda’s skirt her waist.

 Was he shocked at Linda’s revelations? Truth to tell, no, more fascinated. He remembered Holly and her family stories, and playing a walk-on part. At that time it felt quite strange. Harry recalled the mixture of repulsion and attraction. Since then, well, he’d had the Alice experience and what stuck in his mind about that, aside from the heartbreak and eventual sickening realization that there too he was playing a part in her game, was what she said about girls’ boarding school. And yet Anne had been in one and emerged not inhibited but, so far as he knew, without the more extreme tastes. Or was he again kidding himself, believing what he wanted to believe, and she just never let on? As the Dowager Countess of Grantham declared, ‘Every bride takes secrets down the aisle.’

It was his brief career managing the Cashlite that opened Harry’s eyes and ears to how the rich can satisfy their every appetite and tabloids can barely hint. The Cashlite had shone upon the makers of laws, the enforcers of laws and the judges of laws, and all were breakers of laws. In later life he found a saying, that if you want a law broken, make one first.  Knowing what he knew about the wealthy and the freedom wealth conferred, Harry pondered the lives of those who could not afford to buy their indulgence.

Hides a dark secret behind every door? Could one walk down the street where Linda lived, or any other, and find joyful incest, buggery and abuse? Had sin been abolished in suburbia…


*Yes, there’s more to this story, and many more Erotic Adventures of Captain Harry West, so read on with a click here!

Extract from a Story a Week for 27 Weeks, so come back soon – or take the short cut and buy them now with a click!

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Love to Die For 16/27 Belly Dance

Harry and Charlie met up in the Perseverance, the pub by St Saviors, where the vicar had warned Beli against Harry at their pre-nuptial meeting. ‘What does a nice girl like you want with a rake like Harry?’ The old faggot used to drop by for what he described as coffee with Satan. God bless him, he with his hands up the choirboys’ cassocks.  They left the pub and strolled by Young England kindergarten into the St George’s Square, where Lady Di innocently made see-through a fashion item. 

 Harry ushered Charlie through his front door to the sound of squeals, quickly replaced by eastern music. They had wondered what entertainment Beli and Sally would lay on and as the two men sank on to the couch the volume went up and in they shimmied, Sally in diaphanous blue skirt and veil, Beli a bra and belt decorated with tiny silver bells.

Sally whirled her body and twirled the veil, a piece of sheer transparency draped over her jutting breasts, nipples visible under the material which, when she whipped it away, showed their fullness like a pair of dusky strawberries. Beside her, Beli gyrated, thrusting hips as far as they could go, poking her butt out, pushing forward so the blonde tuft peeked beneath the broad jingling belt. They danced, danced for themselves, danced for each other, and Charlie and Harry might not have even been there for all the attention they gave them. Then Beli threw one arm up high and with the other on her hip danced around Sally, one foot forward, the other back, shaking to the beat of the tabla. Sally picked up the wail of the flute and bent and twisted around and around under the veil, suddenly whirling it up in a sweeping movement like a matador’s pass.

Beli the bull, both arms up like horns, tossing her head, thrusting at Sally; Sally turning with amazing grace and playing her with the cape. Faster she twirled and faster Beli danced and charged and backed and danced, forward and back, faster and faster. Sally twirled the cape as the music sped up its frenzied beat until with a clash of cymbals the veil flew through the air, hovered, and landed on Charlie. Laughing, he tossed it back, not to Sally but to Beli, leaving Sally naked but for the transparent blue skirt.

Sally lifted the skirt to cover her breasts, revealing her lustrous pubic hair, and began dancing to the now slower tempo of the music. Covered by the veil over her golden head, Beli unbuckled the silver belt and slid it to the floor, all the while dancing and all the while the two girls kept their eyes fixed on each other. Then Sally bent to pick up the belt. As she slid it up her legs they could see the moisture between her cheeks. Charlie looked excited, licking his lips and rocking on the sofa.

Beli put her hands behind her, threw back her head and unfastened the silver bra. Her breasts sprang free and she was naked but for the veil covering her like the habit of a horny nun. She went behind Sally and crammed Sally’s breasts into the bra, and now it was Beli in the center under the veil and Sally dancing around her.

The hunter had cornered the faun and now danced to seduce, a seductive nymph as the music changed pace and mood. Sally improvised with dips and bows and twirls, holding out her hands, a pleading suitor to Beli the shy maiden wanting to be taken. And so they teased until the music faded. Then they turned their, made a reverse bow and scampered giggling into the bedroom.

Harry looked at Charlie. Charlie looked at Harry. They raised their eyebrows, started to laugh, and ran after the girls, finding them on the bed, and not waiting.  Harry had the bed built when he moved in, to the specification it should be big enough for eight. It was an arena.  He and Charlie dropped their clothes, climbed on and watched the girls enjoying each other.

‘Come on boys,’ Sally looked up from between Beli’s legs, licking her lips, ‘give us a show…’


*Yes, there’s more to this story, so read on with a click here!

Extract from a Story a Week for 27 Weeks, so come back soon – or take the short cut and buy them now with a click!

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Love To Die For 15/27 CHARLIE

Harry last saw Charlie almost present at the conception of Harry’s son. Anne barred Charlie after that. Harry first met him on a visit to Hong Kong. The cliché thing, eyes meet across crowded room, lock, rest of the world evaporates. You find yourselves facing each other. Charlie had a young Johnny Depp look about him. He offered Harry a skewered prawn from the canapé table.  ‘Sorry,’ Harry said, ‘I’m allergic.’

Neither of them could stop laughing.  ‘Interesting,’ said Charlie, ‘that your first word to me was Sorry.’

‘And yours to me?’

‘Touché!’ and then, ‘What’s the allergy, skewers or prawns?’ And they never stopped talking and never stopped laughing. Late that night, alone in the Officers Club, opposite each other in easy chairs, their knees touched.

‘I wonder what it’s like, being in love with a man.’

‘Don’t you know?’  Their eyes locked again. Harry reached out and touched him. Charlie was hard. He pressed Harry’s hand against himself then moved it away.

‘Not now,’ he said, ‘I don’t know what’s going on. I’m not used to this.’

‘I have to go back to Malaysia tomorrow,’ said Harry. ‘Come visit.’

‘Your wife?’

‘What about her?’

‘What will she think?’

‘About what?’

‘About us.’

‘What about us? What’s she to think about us? You don’t know what’s going on? Is anything going on?’  Charlie reddened. They parted, more than friends, less than lovers.   Charlie flew from Hong Kong for a week’s visit with them in Johore. The first night they went out together, to the nightclub down the street from Ho’s Bar, scene of Harry’s unfinished drink with Holly. They got drunk. Charlie held Harry’s hand. Anne saw, and stood up, swaying, cross.

‘Take me home.’  Streetlights spinning, Harry drove back to the house they rented between the town and the base. Anne tottered to the bedroom, collapsed. Harry showed Charlie the guest room: bed, blue mattress, balcony. He locked the door, pulled the mattress off the bed, took it out on the balcony, flung it down, and Charlie on top of it. Sultry night, full moon, memories of Holly. She’d have loved this, thought Harry, falling on top of Charlie. They ripped off their clothes.  His body was much as Harry imagined, with two differences. Charlie’s chest, smooth and hairless, felt good to touch. His buttocks were soft and smooth, almost like a girl’s, but his legs, well, not as bad as the college professor Harry came across some years later who felt like she had on bearskin leggings, but yes, furry, beginning just below the crease and looking really odd beneath those smooth globes.

The biggest surprise was the smallest member Harry had seen in years of boarding school and army. Even stiffened up it was only the size of his pinky. He rubbed it and soon it spurted and went soft. He rubbed it some more and it spurted again, still soft. Harry got Charlie to suck him but he wasn’t at all good at it so he turned him round and rammed him from behind. He hadn’t done this since school and couldn’t say he enjoyed it. He thought because they had such a strong connection, passion, love even, that sex would be divine.  Charlie murmured, ‘I’ve never come so much in my life.’ Hm. Must have been sheltered, thought Harry. That would change.

He fell drunk asleep and Harry left him there, stains of sweat darkening the mattress, went into Anne, asleep drunk, and filled her up with Justin.  Next morning at breakfast in a voice of liquid ice Anne said to Charlie, who hadn’t mentioned leaving, ‘It’s been such a pleasure having you visit, Charlie.’

He glanced at Harry, who peered into a soft-boiled egg.  ‘Yes, well, thank you Anne, you’re very kind, I’m just so sorry I have to go so soon,’ buttering a slice of toast, cutting it into fingers, dipping into oozing yolk.

‘Yes,’ she smiled, ‘such a shame. But you must come again. Pass the marmalade, darling.’  Harry did, straight faced. Charlie munched in silence. When Harry left for the base Charlie picked up his still unpacked bag and got in the jeep beside him.

‘Well,’ he said.

‘Well,’ Harry answered.  Charlie moved in to Officers Club accommodation for the next few nights before his flight back to Hong Kong.

 ‘He’s not to come back, Harry. Holly I could cope with. This I can’t. I should have guessed, when we met that Irish boy.’

‘Oh c’mon, Annie, he was just a passing fancy.’

‘I’m beginning to doubt if anything passed your fancy.’

‘If that were the case,’ Harry said sheepishly, ‘I’d have joined the Black Watch. Or the Coldstreams.’


 And now Charlie was on the phone. Harry recognized his voice immediately…


*Yes, there’s more to this story, so read on with a click here!

Extract from a Story a Week for 27 Weeks, so come back soon – or take the short cut and buy them now with a click!

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Love To Die For 14/27 AFTER ALICE

When a girl in a flowered summer dress comes into a nightclub you tend to take notice. The Club advertised for a temporary teller and if they were expecting any particular type it would have been a washed out dance hostess or cocktail waitress rather than a full-figured twenty-year-old with a Meg Ryan face who brought more attention round the cash register than the stage.   Harry had been manager only a couple of weeks. After a string of affaires trying to unfreeze his heart in the aftermath of Alice, and a range of ventures ending in a wine bar disaster, he saw an ad in The Times for manager of a gentleman’s club in St James’s. Suits me, he thought, nice steady job supervising armchairs of elderly colonels expiring behind their newspapers. Might even come across his ex-boss from the Army.

Two things woke him up: the interview took place in a plush red-lit basement and Gabriel, small face, big nose, asked if Harry had ‘run any girls in the wine bar.’

‘Girls ran in and out all the time.’

‘Did they go with the customers?’

Ah! ‘If they wanted to,’ he said. ‘I didn’t get involved,’ thinking Gabriel must have known as much about trendy wine-bar clientele as Harry about the kind of gentlemen who used his club.  Gabriel looked relieved. ‘It’s important not to be seen to be involved. But you have to keep control. If a hostess leaves with a client and then comes back the same night and goes out with another you could get done for harboring prostitutes.’

‘Of course.’ A new world beckoned.  ‘The waitresses aren’t allowed to go case at all. We pay them travel expenses, dress them in Janet Reger basques and they make their money from tips. Because they’re not available the punters want them more and offer them a lot to go out. You have to watch them.  The strippers get a fixed fee per performance. They’re not allowed to go case either and mostly they’re too busy anyway.’


‘Running. To make any kind of a living they have to work three or four clubs a night. We do two shows every evening, so each girl gets two spots. So they spend their time running from place to place, changing, performing and running again. We try to fit in with their schedule and give them the spots they want.’

‘Hard work.’

‘Everyone works hard in the night business, Harry. Punters see the performance. We smell the sweat. The staff, musicians, barmaids, teller, desk clerk and doorman, are company employees and get a wage. Look out for fiddles. The cigarette girl, photographer and flower girl pay us to work there. Jeanette – front desk – manages that side of things. You just have to keep an eye they’re not overcharging the punters.’  Gabriel stood up. ‘You’ve got presence,’ he said, ‘you look honest and you learn quickly. Running a girlie-club isn’t difficult, just different. Pick the right girls, beautiful, sexy, discreet, keep a nice mix of dark, blonde and black. And keep the press out. They are quite obvious. They come in wanting something other than sex and don’t spend any money. And be nice to the Vice Squad. Don’t offer till they ask, and then get a signature, or at least take a note of name, date, what, how much. And if anyone mentions protection refer them to me. The office deals with that for all our clubs. We have the connections.’

He handed Harry a wad of bills from the inner pocket of his pearl suit. ‘Spend an evening at the Club as a punter. Find out as much as you can without letting on who you are. See if you can spot any fiddles, listen out for loose talk about clients.’  That night Harry learnt about the bishop who likes being led around naked but for a dog’s collar, the judge who likes being birched, and which celebrities prefer anal sex. His first job was to fire the three girls who talked. So he also learned the easy-come easy-go ways of the night, a place where the working day changes its name at midnight and the currency is corruption.

The new teller had a naughty twinkle. Harry watched her cashing-up. At four a.m., money in the safe, Bert the doorman said goodnight, leaving them alone.  ‘How was it for you?’ he asked Sally.

‘I never seen so much cash.’ She had a South London accent.

‘Really? I thought tellers saw heaps of it all the time.’

‘Never been a teller before either.’

Another phony, like him, chancing it in the night.

‘Want to go for a drink?’

‘I want to dance.’

‘Candy Box then?’

‘Can’t we dance here?’  His heart started. He found the soft amber lights for the stage and put on a tape. Sally swayed to Fever and her hands danced over her body. Harry swayed in front of her, blood thick in arousal.

‘I like Maria’s act,’ she said, ‘I’m going to learn to do that with tassels. D’you think my boobs are good enough?’ With one smooth movement she lifted the flowered dress over her head and jiggled her naked breasts. He stared at a pair of green tartan boxer-shorts. She laughed.  ‘Boobs, mate, boobs!’  She caressed the underside of her breasts then, suddenly, turning her back, pulled down the shorts, bent over and wiggled. Over her shoulder she said, ‘You’re over-dressed, Mr Manager.’

The spirit of Holly lives! Black tie, dress shirt and tuxedo flung over the stage couch, he danced behind her, holding her hips. She put her hand down between her legs and grasped him, putting him inside. Wow. And wham-bam. They became a single being, a four-legged animal, swaying to a loop of Fever without end.  The room flooded with fluorescent light. A team of cleaners came in, widened their eyes and retreated.  ‘We’ll come back later, boss,’ one shouted. The lights went down again and their laughter sounded from the lobby.

Sally and Harry stayed together almost a year. Well, not entirely together because they were both living with other people, she with a girl lover, Harry with Beli who had wedding plans. Numbstruck after Alice and his divorce Harry had started by drowning his sorrows but found more relief drowning his duck in every pond in the garden. He had suggested getting back with Anne but she wasn’t having any, instead fell for a realtor who treated her worse and squandered to boot, in a booming real estate market, her entire inheritance on a tide of bad deals before eloping with an illegally employed young barmaid from the Weald of Kent. Allegedly hung like a horse, he chose lamb over sheep.

Bright fluffy hair, fit young body, soft Liverpool accent, used to be a groupie with the Lovin Spoonful, now worked in Sales Aids for the ex-Para’s business scam, Beli jumped at the chance of sharing the apartment Harry had bought in Pimlico. A Liverpudlian lass, grown up in government housing with the soccer team in the days when they came from Liverpool, determined to improve herself, she got a secretarial diploma and changed jobs until finding one in line with her ambitions, in the House of Lords, eventually making do with an Hon’ble, a younger son, with whom she emigrated to the West Country.   Harry rented a room above the restaurant hired for his wedding reception. Honoring the tradition of not shagging the bride the night before, he spent it in bed with Sally and her buddy Linda. They were into hash with their sex and next morning first thing he heard was a banging at the door.

‘Harry! What the fuck! Church in twenty minutes.’ It was his friend Jimmy.  Only ten minutes late after Jimmy jumped every stop light between Fulham and Pimlico but Beli wasn’t pleased, waiting with red face in white dress, and her Mom even less so. ‘Outrageous,’ she cried. Mom had never liked Harry especially not since his remark that a woman who carries the Pill in her purse doesn’t know where she’s going to spend the night. Should have looked first but there you go, didn’t get on and never got off.  Rather than break up at the church Harry and Beli tied the knot and went on to the reception. Drunk on champagne with residual hash-effects, he couldn’t resist slipping upstairs for half an hour with Sally and Linda…


*Yes, there’s more to this story, so read on with a click here!

Extract from a Story a Week for 27 Weeks, so come back soon – or take the short cut and buy them now with a click!

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Love To Die For 13/27 SOLDIER, SAILOR

Alice sat at the kitchen table, drunk. Wild-eyed, face covered in scratches, blouse ripped, hands clawed. Chivas open, brightly colored Hermes headscarf too tough to tear crumpled on the floor.

‘Alice, Alice…’ She looked up, face contorted, ‘What did they say? What will you do? You’re dumping me, aren’t you?’ she stood, shoving the chair backwards. ‘You are, you are. They – are – bastards! I hate them! bloody – fucking – shit – bastards.’

‘Alice, I love you, but Alice, darling, don’t you see…’

‘See what? What? Fuck off you shit! Go back to your fucking wife then. Go on. Get out. You shouldn’t have come here unless you still wanted me. Go on, fuck off goddam bastard-cunt…’  She kicked the chair aside, ran round the table, grabbed a knife from the rack and hurled herself at him. Harry ran.   His driver took him home. Anne sat looking at herself in the mirror as she spoke on the telephone with her mother in England.  Harry felt the stirrings, looking at the reflection of her heavy breasts in the open shirt.

Her mother had warned her about him but otherwise didn’t try to stop them. People married young in those days. Anne was seventeen when they met to the sound of ‘Get off my Cloud’ and the scent of Ma Griffe at a dance at her parents’ house in Kent.  They fell in love to ‘I Got You Babe,’ were engaged a year later with ‘This Guy’s in Love’, and a year after that walked down the aisle in a flower-filled church in Chelsea to ‘All You Need is Love,’ emerging to an honor-guard and bagpipes skirling ‘Amazing Grace.’ (Harry wanted ‘Flowers of the Forest’ but Pipe-Major said that was a Lament, ‘Not good karma for a wedding, Saheb.’)

 ‘He’s here,’ Anne said to the telephone, put it down and turned. ‘Well?’

‘It’s done. I’m back. And I’m sorry.’

‘Oh Harry for God’s sake don’t give me that crap any more. You’re sorry till the next blonde. Just think about the kids, will you. I don’t want them growing up watching you shit on me.’

‘D’you mean you want to split anyway?’

‘No. I mean I want you to stop behaving like you’re still single. I’m sick of it. Holly, Charlie, God knows who else. I want a husband who won’t be unfaithful.’

‘Oh. One of those. Where do they come from?’

‘Shut up and come to bed. I just wish I could stop loving you, bastard!’  They made up with the easy moves of familiar passion, laced with tears of sorrow and forgiveness. She was a conventional girl who said she had never touched herself in that way and if she loved her teddy-bear she kept such things private.  They satisfied each other like missionaries and as she drifted into sleep Harry’s mind drifted into Alice, her intensity, her sexuality, her craziness. He felt the feelings flow in his body, and turned again to his wife. Did she have secret thoughts too? Could he keep his secret? The texture of their flesh was different, the shape of their bodies, the heat, moisture, taste and fragrance of their inner flesh. Harry fantasized about converting to a polygamous religion and having the two of them together, but Anne had been shocked when in the past he hinted at anything even mildly ‘experimental’. And she’d got rid of Charlie quick-time.

 Colonel John was right. Alice would get over me, Harry thought, and I her. But his heart beat faster when he thought of her and the pictures in his mind were of her, naked, writhing, rubbing, and of her face changing when she came. What would happen to her now? They said they would not send her away again. Again? He felt jealous of what he did not know.   At ten o’clock that night the phone rang. Anne answered. She listened, then gasped, started shaking.

‘What?’ She shook her head, handed him the phone, went under the covers. Harry heard the brutal tones of Patsy, Alice’s mother.  ‘She took an overdose. She’s in hospital. I’m telling you because I don’t want this to change anything you…’

He was gone.   The Military Hospital stood on a hill. He braked at the foot of the steps, stormed up, smashed through the doors, ran along corridors shouting Alice, Alice until God or somebody led him to her bedside. She’d had her stomach pumped.  He stood by her bed saying I love you until the Military Police took him away.

 The next interview was with the General who invited Harry to resign his commission and sent him back to England with his family. At Stansted Airport Anne’s childhood friend Poppy met her and between withering looks at Harry shepherded her and the children out of his life. His eyes filled with tears. The lump in his throat choked the words he could not find to say. He became aware of a rare emotion in his abandoned soul. His first Dad left him at that age for death in the service of his country but what was the difference to a tearful little boy? His siblings deserted theirs. Will their children’s children be afflicted with this deep abiding coldness, craving the fierce heat of new love? Even unto the fourth generation? Or is it the reassurance of conquest?

 Anne and the children went to her parents in Kent, Harry to a studio in Chelsea. He trudged the streets and scanned the papers for the kind of job that would suit someone like him. The Army paid him for a few months. He sent it to Anne. Eventually found work with an ex-Para selling business opportunities in chancy schemes.  Alice stayed in the front of his mind, his first waking thought and the last before he went to sleep dosed with Black Label. He tried to telephone her in Hong Kong. Sometimes he got John, who was friendly but unhelpful, or Patsy, unfriendly and more unhelpful, until one day two months later when she didn’t hang up but said, ‘No, you can’t speak with her. She’s not here. She’s in hospital again. A Navy officer this time. Also married…’


*Yes, there’s more to this story, so read on with a click here!

Extract from a Story a Week for 27 Weeks, so come back soon – or take the short cut and buy them now with a click!

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