The Final Arrangement - Sex Stories

The Final Arrangement

Eyes closed.

A staccato drumbeat of heavy rain over the taut fabric of a sheltering umbrella. Waves of white noise, tyres on wet tarmac, sweep left and right. A dull, musty yet sharp-edged smell of wet city. Chill raindrops sprinkle over skin exposed below the knee. The sore ache of feet and toes bound tightly in leather, lifted on unfamiliar heels. Cool, silky smoothness of my long coat's lining wrapping my bare skin beneath. Flutter of a racing heartbeat.

And something else.

Something conspicuously unfamiliar and new. Something light, cool, barely there, encircling my ankle, placed there by my loving husband, John, only an hour ago. I remember that moment, its significance and meaning. Heart heavy, bitter sorrow surges again in my chest.

Smiles and tears at our parting. An emotional wrench to turn and walk away.

I catch a sob and, with conscious effort, suppress it beneath a swell of nervous anticipation.

There was the long bus ride into the city, self-conscious of my attire among fellow passengers, anxious of premature discovery. The short walk through bustling, rain-drenched streets. I yearned to blend in. Each step was a new experience of stiletto heel strike, adjusted gait and hip sway, and momentum to unbridled breasts that risked unwanted attention.

And here I am.

Eyes open.

He's there, just as he said he would be. Through the cafe window, he raises a cup, sips, and turns the page of a newspaper. Something deep inside is urging me to ...

... cross the street to him. And yet, legs resist moving a body heavy with guilt. Puzzled, I look down at them.

Emotions spin and tumble like the autumn leaves caught in the swirls and eddies of rainwater flowing around my feet. My husband - my love - the centre of my life, and... This man. This opportunity to fulfil needs so long neglected.

Inertia quashed, rivulets trail across the floor from the cafe door to where I stand before him, coat and folded umbrella dripping, smile anxious and uncertain. He looks up. A welcoming smile dawns. He stands, offering a hand. We shake gently but firmly, and raindrops scatter from my sleeve across the table and his newspaper. Embarrassed, I laugh self-consciously. His laugh is warm, genuine amusement and he gestures to the seat across from him.

His consideration and empathy are notable: No intrusive invasion of body space with stilted hug or awkward air kiss, no showy, old-school chivalry with a chair, just that genuinely friendly handshake and invitation to join him at his table for two. And his glance - that seemed to try to take in my whole body - gives me a warm, tingly feeling.

We exchange pleasantries. He asks what I'd like to drink and steps over to the barista's counter to place the order. I watch the hazy to-and-fro of headlamps and brake lights through the window's growing condensation. The warm, bright interior contrasts sharply with the cold, grey, darkening day outside. A chill of doubt sweeps into my troubled mind. He ...