Angie's Love - Sex Stories

Angie's Love

... to Angie. Is she a mum? What would her kids think of her? Paying for sex with him.

The wall between the bedroom and bathroom is covered in floor-to-ceiling mirror, the hallmark of the lover's suites at Palisades. Angie drops the remote like a hot iron, fearing she might be being watched. The floor-to-ceiling windows look out over a square green space dotted with elms, oaks, wrought-iron benches clustered around a stone water fountain, a statue of a cherub with a harp spouting urine into the basin. A tramp stretches out over one of the benches enjoying the warm afternoon sunshine. A plump elderly woman, her hair tied up in a bun, feeds a flock of pigeons titbits, crumbs of stale bread from a paper bag. Angie thinks, that will be me one day.

She draws the curtain, plunging the room into darkness. He is afraid of the dark. The shock of darkness brings back vivid memories of the terrible day when he and Sian, yes, Sian was there, mowed down a young mother and child, killing her baby instantly, the force of the collision hurling the buggy against a stone wall, her bloodied baby hanging off the straps of the buggy, the woman: lying, bent and twisted under the wheels of their hybrid 4x4. How Sian pleaded with him to leave the scene, the maimed woman screaming in agony under the wheels. How Sian forced him to reverse off her mangled body. How Sian insisted they left her, drove off. Their collective guilt. Miraculously, the woman survived: to stalk him, to terrorize him, to ...

... endlessly haunt him, for his sins.

Angie breaks his silence, 'Turn on the lights for me.'

Relieved, his nightmare over, at least, for now, he fumbles for the dimmer light switch. The light comes on. Angie moves to the other side of the bed, more confident, ready for him, now. She stands facing the full-length mirror, watching him slide across the bed: to be with her. He stands behind her, pressing his proud flesh into her creased indigo dress, her back.

Offering him no resistance, she explains why she is there, her voice subdued, a whisper. 'My husband died of cancer five years ago. He was my steadfast pillar of support, my best friend, my lover. I talk to him every morning when I wake. Pray for him each night before I go to bed. I think of him every minute of the day. My life is empty, pointless without him.'

'I'm sorry. How long were you married for?'

'Ten years.'

He feels an overbearing sense of remorse, a compassion for her. Feels sorry for her. He wants to love her, care for her, make up for the loss she's endured, her loneliness, do something good for once in his life. Ten years? She must be thirty, maybe as old as forty, fifty, yet she doesn't look a day over twenty.

'That must be really hard for you, Angie,' he says, holding her waist.

'It is hard. Michael and I were inseparable. We played together, shared the same interests: golf, tennis, swimming, keeping ourselves fit. We even worked together. We set up a successful cleaning company.'

He's ...