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He felt his consciousness fading away. There was a roaring noise in his ears, his vision became blurred and he stopped being. He simply stopped being.When he regained awareness, he found himself lying on the sofa. Someone had removed his shoes. His jacket, he noticed, was hanging on the back of a chair and his tie and shirt collar had been loosened.He felt dizzy, he had a headache and his throat felt sore.“I am sorry you had to see that, Paul,” his wife spoke. There was what sounded like genuine sympathy in her voice. But there was something else, too. Something patronising, perhaps? Whatever it was, it wasn’t pleasant.“Yes. We wouldn’t have wanted to hurt you like that for the world” said his former friend, Pastor Bob, insincerely.Sally added: “We wanted to tell you about what was happening tomorrow or the day after, but your early arrival has foreshortened our timetable.”“What timetable?” asked Paul, mystified.He sat up, even though it made his head swim.“Paul,” said Sally in tones. It’s the bed I never want to leave despite that its overly formal overtones do not lend itself well to the facts at hand. From the moment my lover led me into the well appointed room, laid me back against the tufted cream bedspread, and pressed my body deep into the crush of pale velvet throw pillows, it didn’t strike me as the sort of bed to which a cosmopolitan and fashionably modern male escorts his clandestine lover for an impromptu, undercover and hopefully uninterrupted week of mind bogglingly self-indulgent mutual gratification. Perhaps it’s simply my personal brand of perversion, but the questioning glint of the elderly innkeeper’s rather naive gaze as she visually inspected our recently bared ring fingers while we boldly signed the register with our own names, names that do not match, and slid the book back to her, further whet my already gnawing appetite for my lover. I wonder to myself how many outwardly respectable, uptight ladies have had a proper fucking, as I have, on.
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