Fun Wives: 5 previously published stories about first time cuckolds and hotwives by Laura Llyles

Author:Laura Llyles [Llyles, Laura]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: PMI
Published: 2022-10-02T00:00:00+00:00

A Cheater's Homage

It was noisy, it was steamy, it was crowded, and it was perfect. My little cafe on the corner: Here is where I came for that “me time” you can only get in a crowd of anonymous strangers. The only place I can get it, anyway.

I pulled my brown, leather-skinned journal out of my tote bag, freed my fine-point pen from the red satin ribbon that bound it, and opened up to a fresh, clean, and un-sullied page. I pushed the spine open, I spread my palm out over the eggshell vellum, and I curled my pursed lips in to keep from grinning like a fool all by myself tucked in the corner by the window at the tiny round table.

It was perfect. All I needed was something to write about . . . .

He — and there’s always a “he” in these things, isn’t there — leaned over my shoulder too close from behind, startling me. He slid his bulbous hands with their thick, stubby fingers over the back of the bent-wood chair unoccupied at my table, and meant to remain that way. I came to this neighbourhood because no one knew me here, and I didn’t know anyone here, either. I could be someone else . . . .

He was wearing an untucked and hung-open plaid cotton shirt that had been through the wash a thousand times, and a plain brown t-shirt below, also untucked. His jeans were worn out, his hair was months from the barber, and his face was unshaved, but not bearded, either. He was plain. He was so everyman, he was no man, one of those people who make themselves invisible. He scored zero in every category. Worse of all, he wasn’t even interesting.

It was his scent that made me glance again. My nose is sensitive and I don’t often encounter scents that intrigue me rather than repulse me. His was some unusual blend of rainfall and cinnamon. It was nothing that could have been purposeful judging by his unconcerned looks, which made me wonder. How do you just pick that up?

But it was his voice that made me turn and face him. Deep and resonant, it was surprisingly soft and intimate even when he was just trying to be clear and polite. He was too close to me for comfort already, but his voice was as though it was inside my own mind and it made me mini-shiver.

“Is anyone using this chair?” he said, and I was so startled by that voice I raised my face, twisted toward him, and stared as though I was at a gallery looking at odd pictures. At first it didn’t even seem possible that the voice and the face went together, one so plain and ordinary, the other so stirring and evocative.

“This one?” he said, and his thick fingers tapped over the back of the empty chair pulling me out of my momentary entrancement.

“Oh, no,” I said, finally coming back to, and I shook my head and smiled with embarrassment.

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