“I didn’t want to worry you.” The message appears, confirming all my fears.
She hasn’t been around for days. I knew something was up. Her usual playful messages were absent. There was silence.
“Me, worried?” I say with poorly disguised cheer.
“They don’t know if it’s spread yet. It’s in a lymph node or something in my neck. They’ll only know after they operate. My husband’s so worried about me. He’s not good at this illness stuff. He’s falling apart. I’m trying to hold it together for him.”
“What can I do?”
I was aware my offer was an empty one. I could be a thousand miles away. Or she could be next door for all I knew. Even though we’d been talking online every day for the last three years, I didn’t actually know where she lived. I knew everything else about her. About her life as an artist, her fears and her hopes, her favourite food, television programmes. Her loving but impotent husband, the chasm that had built between them.
Over the years I had learned the intimate details, her secret places, how to tease her, fill the void in her dry, empty sex life. Each night, after her husband had gone to bed, we’d sit up late, chatting and playing with each other, using our words to describe what we yearned to do together, driving each other wild with lust.
Inhibitions were strewn as I’d listen out for her soft moans as my lips tortured her nipples, fingers stroking her soft, smooth mons as I slip them inside her lips, using my own wet needy cunt to imagine how it felt to touch her. My fingers a meagre but necessary replacement as she described her tongue lapping at my folds, exploring my throbbing wet flesh. She knew exactly where to touch me, lick me to make my cunt drip with desire.
I could feel her lust matching mine as the words appeared on the screen, slowly building as we’d press our mouths into each other’s pussies, feverishly devouring each other, or perhaps slide our wet aching cunts together, hips rocking until simultaneously we reached our climax. I’d imagine her lying as I was, head thrown back, mouth open, panting, moaning as night after night we’d cum together. We may have been a thousand miles apart, but in those moments, we were one.
I often wondered what her husband must think if he ever heard her moaning with the pleasure I gave her deep into the night. Whether he noticed when she snuck into bed late, her body flushed and excited, smelling of fresh cum. She laughed when I once asked, commenting bitterly that he wouldn’t notice or care. That he didn’t see her as I did, a sexual goddess to be devoured and fucked as often as possible.
But now it was me that was impotent. Helpless to come to her aid when she needed me. To give her the comfort I longed to provide.
“I don’t think he’ll cope without me. What happens if….” Her words fade, unable to complete the sentence.
“So, what’s the prognosis? What did the doctor say?” I ask, trying to be practical, desperate to quell the panic rising in my chest.
“They can operate laparoscopically, so hopefully it won’t leave a massive scar. But they won’t know how bad it is until they remove the tumour.”
That ugly word hangs heavy in the air whilst I struggle to pull myself together.
“When? When can they operate?” I know that she can sense my panic.
“Soon. Next week. I don’t know what the recovery time will be like, or if it will even work. How will he manage to hold it all together without me?” I can feel the sob she is suppressing in her throat.
I push down the resentment I feel for her husband. I know how she feels about him, even if I don’t understand why she is so committed and loyal, but now is not the time to point out his flaws.
“We’ll find a way. I’m here for you.” And I know this to be true. I know I will do anything for her.
I try to quell the other feelings that are rising deep within my core. What if it goes wrong? What if she’s not ok? What if I don’t find out? That one day, without notice, she could just vanish from my life like she was never there. Leaving no mark.
The next day I carry on as usual, but my mind is a whirr, unable to focus, concentrate. The fear rises up from the depths in overwhelming waves. I can’t rid myself of the helplessness, the powerlessness, the constant anticipation of the regret I might feel if the worst were to happen. How could I live without her? What if I don’t get to say goodbye?
I glance around at my empty job, the cheerful colleagues that wouldn’t notice if I was there or not. I had always felt that this was my real life, the important stuff, but now it all fades to nothing. She may exist only in cyberspace, but I know that my feelings for her are more real than anything that I can touch, taste, grip on to.
I make a decision.
“Will you tell me your address?” I message, without giving myself time to think it through properly.
There’s a long, agonising pause, as she obviously thinks through the enormity of what I have just asked her. Under normal circumstances I would never dream of going there, never break the unspoken code of anonymity and privacy that rules our world. But these aren’t normal times. This could be life or death. And I don’t know how much time we have.
Just as I start to shake, thinking I’ve totally overstepped the mark my phone beeps.
Appletree Cottage, Sloe’s Lane, Cranbourne, Derbyshire DE4 8PT.
My heart soars with relief. There it is. Words I never thought I’d see, or even dare ask for. In that moment I’m so grateful for the trust she has in me. That the years we have spent getting to know each other so intimately have not been worthless. She does not doubt who I am. She is confident in the knowledge that she knows me, that I could never bring her any harm.
I log in to the sat nav on my phone. It’s only half a day away.
Not having any idea how long I will be gone, it takes me about a week to negotiate with my boss so that I can work remotely and to sort out some other bits and pieces. Dumping my boyfriend is perhaps the easiest of tasks. We both knew that it hadn’t been going very well for a while, and I guess we’d been waiting for a reason to split. The only question I was left with was why it had taken me so long.
We talk every day. I can hear the fear in her words for the state of her health and the uncertain future that has suddenly been thrust upon her.
“Are you sure this is alright?” I asked for the hundredth time. “I don’t want to be any trouble.” I feel guilty seeking assurance from her when she is the one that requires care and attention.
“I have no idea, but fuck it. What’s the worst that can happen?” She jokes weakly.
The silence hangs between us as we both contemplate the potentially awful consequences of my decision.
Firstly, well firstly we might hate each other, or find each other repulsive. Our intimate connection might evaporate in the cold light of reality, leaving me an awkward burden in her house.
Secondly, she might be too sick for me to cope with, I might not be up to the huge task of caring for somebody so vulnerable, unable to keep my own fears at bay.
And then thirdly there’s him, her ever-present husband that I have spent years denying. I haven’t even thought about what we are going to do with him.
As if reading my mind, she speaks.
“I’ve told him you’re an old friend. I’ve told him we were once very close, before his time, but we lost touch. That we’ve reconnected recently, through Facebook and that you have some experience of cancer and that you want to visit and help.” She pauses.
“I don’t know if it’s the illness or not, but I’m not sure he believed me. I think he could tell that you were more important to me than that. But to be honest, I don’t have the strength to contemplate those thoughts right now. I guess we’ll need to deal with that if I make it across the bridge.”
**********
My car pulls up at a remote house on the outskirts of a pretty town. The travel has only been a few hours, but I feel exhausted from the nervous energy and the task I have undertaken. I again curse myself for my impulsivity and where it could lead. That I could risk losing the greatest happiness in my world, the only spark of joy in an otherwise dull and cloudy life. And that is without even considering the jeopardy I have placed her security in.
Her surgery took place five days ago, and I know it has gone well and she is now home. She messaged me as soon as she was conscious to provide me with the reassurance I was anxiously waiting for. Again, she read my mind that I needed to hear she was alright.
I've received several messages from her since them. Fretful ones about the state of her house now she was home and what I might think of her. Begging me not to judge her, and that if she had been able, she would have made it much nicer for me.
I take a deep breath and knock on the door.
A tall, willowy man answers. He has greying hair and a kind, handsome face. He looks at me speculatively, as if assessing me, before breaking into a wide, open smile. He puts out his hand and I take it as we introduce ourselves.
He leads me to the kitchen as he explains that she is sleeping, and he doesn’t want to disturb her. She has not been sleeping well at night and needs rest. I briefly wonder if he is referring to other reasons for her sleep deprivation, but I reprimand myself, remembering her health concerns.
I survey the mess in the kitchen. She wasn’t wrong. Plates are piled high in the sink and there is certainly evidence of a home in trauma. To break the awkward silence, I set about tidying, asking him if he minds. He shakes his head, smiling and apologising, telling me he’s not as domesticated as he should be, and that the last few weeks have been a struggle.
As I tidy, we chat. He tells me how well the surgeon said the operation went, how she’s been feeling, how brave and stoic she’s been. He shares his fears that he has been a burden to her with his scared and selfish reaction. He blinks away tears as he tells me how much he loves her and how he just wants her to be healthy and happy and how glad he is that I’m here to provide a distraction. I bristle, wondering if it is a loaded comment, that he knows more than he is letting on.
But I can’t help but find myself warming to him, can understand why she loves him and has made her home with him. Inwardly I chastise myself for the years of jealousy and resentment I have felt towards him. Unnecessary and wasted emotions.
His phone beeps and he looks down and smiles.
“She’s awake. She’d like you to go up and see her. It’s the first door at the top of the stairs.”
My stomach suddenly contracts into knots as I remember why I am here. She’s upstairs, and any minute now we are going to meet.
I climb the stairs slowly and reach her door. Taking a deep breath, I knock, open it and peer in.
There she is, prettily arranged in her bed. Her dark hair and green eyes sparkle, just as she described. I smile shyly and she reaches out her hand. I walk over and clasp it, sitting on the bed smiling at each other, not knowing quite what to say.
“How are you feeling?” I ask not knowing whether it is nervousness or concern I am trying to hide in my voice. I fail at both.
“Much better thank you,” she says reassuringly. “Look, just one small bandage.” She positions her neck to reveal a small square of white fabric.
My fingers reach out to trace the material, and we both jump slightly as I make contact with her skin.
Removing my fingers like they’ve been scalded, we continue on silently, smiling at each other as I look around the room. I would never have imagined that once we met, we could be lost for words.
Several long minutes pass, and I feel I must break the silence.
“He’s nice.” There’s an awkward pause as she nods, not daring to speak. “But jeez, I don’t know how you didn’t expect me to judge you. Have you seen the state of your house?”
She looks shocked and I giggle. She joins me and the tension is broken.
She tentatively pulls back the covers and motions for me to get in. Grinning, I climb under the duvet and snuggle closer to her body. She winces as I brush against her bandage and I look up in horror. Smiling she moves towards me to kiss my concerned lips, and I melt against her. Our kiss deepens and our tongues entwine and I feel like I am home.
She lifts my fingers and kisses each tip, then looking at me daringly, her beautiful eyes flashing with mischief, as she moves them to her small, perfect breasts. I hold my breath as I run my fingers over the outline of her nipples and they stiffen against my touch, hearing her sighs of pleasure for the first time is music to my ears.
There’s a knock at the door and we jump apart. I almost fall on the floor in my scrabble to get out from under the duvet. She waits for me to centre myself before saying, "come in."
He walks in carrying two steaming cups.
"I’ve made it white without sugar, but I’ve brought some up with me if you need it," He says brightly, placing the two cups down next to the bed.
I’m flushed and rigid with discomfort and I’m sure he must be able to tell by the shocked, embarrassed look on my face that he has interrupted something. If he can, he makes no mention of it. I glance at her, but she is relaxing back against her pillow looking happy as she thanks him for the tea and waves him out of the room, saying she wants some alone time with her old friend.
She laughs at the horrified look on my face after he has left the room.
“Come here, silly. I’m so glad that you’re here. I’ve waited so long for this.” And with that, I lean in and kiss her again, a deep languid kiss that has every inch of my body thrumming.
“Do you think he knows?” I whisper when we break our kiss.
“I don’t know,” She replies honestly. “But I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to see somebody. I’ve waited so long. Please don’t make me wait another second,” She pleads.
Stirred by the close proximity to her skin, her scent filling me, I don’t need asking twice. Pulling back the duvet, I cautiously lift the oversized t-shirt over her head, careful to avoid her bandage. Then, starting at her collarbone, I kiss my way over her body. My lips pause at her exquisite nipples, responsive and stiff to my tentative tongue, unable to stop myself from taking them deep in my mouth to devour. They feel so much better than my imagination could ever conjure and I feel my pussy start to throb and moisten. My fingers feel magnetically pulled, descending across her stomach, snaking down to stroke her smooth, soft mound.
Her breathing shallows as she parts her legs, inviting me to the place I have visited so many times in my head. Fingers gliding along her lips I feel her heat and her wetness coat my searching digits. Dragging my lips away from her sweet nipples my tongue follows in pursuit, marking lines with my saliva across her stomach. Desperate to taste her I lick between her folds as she opens up to me like a flower, her thighs trembling at my touch.
Her whimpers fill my ears as my tongue probes deeper, licking up her juices, my mouth hungry for her flavour. Her taste is so tantalising, and my hunger grows, rubbing my cheeks against her soft velvet skin, before stopping to take her clit in my mouth, feeling it engorge and pulse. Her moans grow louder, and I hear her begging, “please, please.” Gripping her thighs, I push my tongue inside her as her whole body shudders, juices dripping into my mouth, coating my chin as she cums.
I lie there for a minute, waiting for her body to calm, and when I look up she is smiling at me.
"Come here," she says, and I crawl up her body.
I lie in her arms. “Wow,” She smiles at me.
“Wow back,” I say, mirroring our online language after a particularly satisfying orgasm.
“Do you think he might have heard anything?” I worriedly ask her.
“I expect he’s forgotten what it sounds like to hear a woman moaning and begging to cum,” she replies sadly.
We spend the rest of the evening entwined, sharing stories and laughing at ourselves and from where we have come. We stop briefly when he brings us up some dinner, which he leaves outside in the hall. I don’t think he wants to disturb our happy chatter.
It’s getting late, and she looks tired, so I tear myself from her side, suddenly aware of how it must look, me spending so many hours in her room. I softly kiss her goodnight, as I make my way down the stairs.
He is sitting in the armchair playing a computer game and looks up when I enter the living room. A tumultuous crash is heard on the screen, which he ignores.
“So, you’ve had a nice time,” he pauses, “together.’
I nod my head, biting my lip, trying to hide the guilt screaming from each pore, remembering earlier, hoping he can’t smell her juices on my face. I feel my face flush with shame because of where I have been and what I have done.
If he suspects, he makes no sign of it and tells me he has made up the sofa for me to sleep on, apologising that I am unable to have the spare room. He explains that he has been sleeping there, to ensure she is not disturbed during the night. His kindness makes me feel another pang of guilt, and as he bids me goodnight, I tell him how grateful I am. I settle on the sofa, the warm glow of the memories of the evening slowly replacing the shame.
I wake to hear voices. She is up, out of bed and in the kitchen, delighted by the tidy, sparkling surfaces she was not expecting. She is feeling better and her laughter rings round the house. It’s a beautiful sound and I’m so happy to hear it.
When I enter the kitchen, the mood changes, there is a slight tension, awkwardness, and I feel like an interloper. He cannot meet my eye, and I suddenly feel uncomfortable around him. Does he know what I have done? How I have abused his kindness and hospitality? I make myself scarce, using the excuse of work to catch up on, and I am offered an office where I can concentrate in peace. Work comes as a relief from the confusion in my head. Happiness heavily tinged with remorse.
Later in the day, he knocks at my door, offering me a cup of tea. He enters, perches on the desk and tells me he’s been thinking. Now that she is feeling better and out of bed, it is probably not convenient to have me sleeping on the sofa. I nod and mumble that I understand. That I will leave in the morning.
“That’s not what I meant at all,” He says, his smile making his face crinkle in genuine kindness.
An awkward silence fills the room, and I wait, trying to anticipate what he will say next.
“Now that I’m settled in the spare room, it’s probably better if you sleep in with her." He pauses before continuing, "I’ve never seen her so happy, and I can’t be the one to take that away from her.”
I look at him in genuine astonishment. “Are you sure?” I whisper, heart lurching with hope.
He takes a deep breath. “I’ve loved her for fifteen years,” He replies. “She’s been my life, my everything. But something is missing, for both of us. She deserves to be happy, but it seems that I cannot give that to her.”
I stare at him, trying to comprehend what he is saying.
“I don’t want to live without her. But…” He falters slightly, before continuing quietly, “Do you think you might be able to make her happy?”
Tentatively I nod.
He continues, telling me that they both need me, need me to complete them. To refill a half-empty vessel with joy.
“Could you stay a while? Would you stay a while?” It’s almost a plea.
“How long?” I whisper.
He smiles and shrugs. I return his smile, feeling it radiating throughout my body.
As he leaves the room, my mind immediately flits to the bag secreted in the boot of my car, the one I'd tortured myself about bringing, the one with the wand massager, the strap-on and the double dildos, the special presents I'd brought just for her.
Surely tomorrow wouldn't be too early to shower those gifts upon her.
