Kaptain's Blog

The writings and musings of The Kaptain

Monday, January 28, 2008

The Number One Under Heaven (9)

It was ten o’clock and Sophie already sound asleep, floating blissfully through Barbie dreams, when Blake quietly exited the apartment. He did not usually like to leave her alone, but the fridge was empty of beer or wine. Still recovering from his hangover, Blake was now desperate for a hair of the dog. I’ll just slip out to twenty-four seven, he thought to himself. Pick up a bottle of Shiraz and something to snack on, then come straight back. But as he then approached the store from across the piazza, a familiar group was loitering around the waste bins nearby, each with a stiff drink in hand. “’Ere ’e is!” called out an acquaintance. “Blakey-boy!” yelled another. “Come over ’ere! Oi! Come on!” As on previous occasions Blake was not entirely keen to join the throng, but he diverted over nonetheless, to be greeted this time by a barrage of friendly punches. “OK guys. Just one,” he said, fending off the last. “Can’t be long – I’ve left Sophie at home in bed,” he further explained. “Where’s the missus, then?” asked one of his friends. “Tennis lesson.” “Ah, I see. Must be your round,” the man then added, holding up an empty plastic beaker. “Sure, no problem,” said Blake. “My round, guys. What are you all having?” He bought the drinks from the bottle shop and ferried them outside in two trips before taking his first, long gulp of a large gin and tonic. “Cheers, guys,” he said, raising his beaker. “Cheers, Adam,” came a chorus of replies. “Right: you can fuck off now,” added one – a joker who was also something of an Oliver Reed lookalike. In fact, he resembled the late actor in more ways than one.

An hour later, Blake was on his fourth double: the gathering now in party mode, with comic role play in full swing. “So when is it gonna be dat man first walks on da surface of de sun?” Blake mimicked the character Ali G, to a round of raucous laughter. “Well, that’s just never gonna happen, young man: ’cause it’s too damn hot.” An American drawl this time, in the style of his boss. “But ‘ow abowt if we did it in wintah, when the sun’s not as hot, innit?” Ali G again. Blake was a good impersonator: his drinking buddies appreciating the entertainment. But just as the party was reaching its peak, one of the revellers suddenly – miraculously – had the presence of mind to remind him about Sophie. “Shit!” he exclaimed. “Fuck! I’d better run!” Waving behind as the motley crew yelled out their boozy goodbyes, Blake made a bee-line for home by the most direct of routes, which would take him around the back of the tennis courts. He was just reminding himself to keep an eye out for Kate, in order to ensure she did not spot him when, after rounding a corner, something stopped him dead in his tracks. At about fifty paces ahead, there she was. But Kate was not alone. Her back was pressed against the wall and she had raised a knee so that her leg was in between her companion’s, pushing up into his groin. Arms wrapped around his neck, she looked up into the man’s eyes, fawning like a teenager. For Kate was truly under the spell of this new figure in her life – Tommy, the club professional.

His first instinct was to run straight towards the couple – couple: he spat silently, in his mind – but something inside made him back off. Instead, he quickly turned to go another way, to take a more circuitous route back to the apartment, but one that would still get him there before Kate would have time to return – not that she was in a hurry, it seemed. In spite of his shock, Blake was still able to think clearly enough to glance at his wristwatch: he wanted to know exactly how long her heavy petting with the muscular Australian would last. On reaching the apartment a few minutes later, he was relieved to find that Sophie remained asleep, with no signs that she had woken while he was gone. For a sensitive seven year-old, she’s had enough upset for one day, he then began to think to himself. I’m not going to challenge Kate when she gets back tonight. I can hardly afford a slanging match in the middle of the night, anyway. Especially when I’ve got to be in the office early tomorrow, bright and fucking breezy, re-jigging the bullshit financial forecast. Fuck! I didn’t need this on top of everything else, he cursed inwardly, reflecting once more on what he had witnessed.

Blake was understandably disturbed by Kate’s transgression. And every minute that passed before she returned served to further increase his anxiety. In his haste to get back to the apartment he had also forgotten to pick up the wine, he now realised. He was not even able, therefore, to dull the uneasy sensation he felt with a further dose of alcohol. Fidgeting and slowly overcome by a growing feeling of sadness, he watched the seconds on the face of the kitchen clock tick slowly by. At last he heard the turn of her key in the lock as his wife entered, stealthily. Eleven-forty, he noted. She’s been with him a further half-hour. Strangely, he felt a sense of relief at this, as surely that means they didn’t have enough time to go to Tommy’s apartment for… no: he simply could not bring himself to think about what else they might have done, or had thought about doing. And it was in this same moment of reflection that he resolved to try and improve: to pay her more attention – become a better husband than he had been of late.

For her part, Kate was not expecting him to be awake when she returned: the stillness of the apartment conniving with this misconception such that Blake startled her when emerging from the kitchen to greet her. The smile that had lingered around the corners of her lipstick-smeared mouth was wiped off in an instant, although she felt no anger at her husband’s surprise appearance – only guilt, and perhaps a little shame. She blushed invisibly in the dimly lit lounge and asked why he was still up, when normally he would already be in bed at this hour. “Couldn’t sleep,” he simply replied. “But why were you just standing there in the kitchen, then, and not watching telly or something?” Kate was worried now, a mild paranoia forming in her mind. Had he been spying on her? Seen something? “I’d just turned it off,” he lied. “Was about to turn in and have another go at sleeping. How was the lesson, by the way?” Blake avoided the temptation to add some edge to his question, a magnanamous act under the circumstances.

His wife seemed not to want to talk about it, though, for reasons they were both separately aware – a knowledge they could not, however, share. Instead, she suggested they retire for the night, sheepishly offering to make him a drink to take to bed. A few minutes later, as she placed the hot chocolate on the bedside table next to him, Blake gripped her arm. “Kate, I’m sorry about my behaviour this afternoon. It’s just that I’m so bloody frustrated at work these days. I’ll be back to my usual self in no time – you’ll see.” She smiled, thinly, and began to pull away. “Darling. Come here,” he then said, a little too firmly, resisting her intended retreat and pulling her closer, instead. “Let’s make love.” “I need to take a shower first,” she replied, still trying to pull away. “No. Don’t bother with that. I want you now,” he insisted.

Blake wanted something else, too. He needed to smell her, down there. To put his nose and mouth up close to the mound on which the carefully tended strip of soft pubic down was knit, and then to gently lick her clitoris. The distinctive aroma of which was known only to him. His property. Sole owner. And so he was relieved that when, finally, she gave in – permitting his advance – he found that whereas she was indeed already wet, there was thankfully only one flavour of sticky fluid inside her. Her own. “Nice topiary,” he then quipped, surveying her perfectly trimmed bush while lapping at her, delicately. To which she managed a chuckle, between the soft moans that purred from her puckered lips – a welcome giggle that was music to his ears, coming as it did at a time that for him was full of uncertainty, both in his workplace and at home. But whether Blake’s reaction to what he had stumbled upon behind the tennis courts was due more to pride, than love, was a matter of conjecture. And later, while he reflected upon this as she straddled him, her hips gyrating sensually, his doubts were matched equally by her indifference. For Kate’s expert performance concealed her true emotions: her thoughts throughout the encounter – and during her climax – focused firmly and exclusively on Tommy, her coach.

posted by Kirk at 12:46 am  

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