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Authors: Janey Rosen

Sebastian - Secrets

BOOK: Sebastian - Secrets
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Sebastian
Secrets
________

 

Janey Rosen

Sebastian - Secrets

Copyright © 2013 by Janey Rosen

 

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author.

 

ISBN-13: 978-1481827928

Dedication

I owe a debt of gratitude to my husband for his unending patience and fortitude, without which it would have been impossible for me to dedicate so much time to completing this book.

Janey Rosen

1

Closing
the bedroom door, I pad over to the dressing table and select my most seductive perfume.  I spritz myself from the waist down with the musky scent, remove my new pink silk robe and switch off the lamp.  I am irresistible. 

 

Pulling back the heavy feather duvet, I slide into bed and wait for him to devour me.  I wait patiently, but he lies motionless again across the expanse of our bed.  Sighing heavily I turn onto my side and spoon him, my hard and needy nipples rub against his back but the heavy brushed cotton of his striped, old-man pyjama top shields him from my touch.  Forgoing subtlety now, I impatiently reach over his hip, and my fingers rub demandingly along his flaccid manhood through his pyjama trousers, but apparently it’s as benumbed as the body it belongs to.  He stirs and groans, a good sign as I need him awake but he swats my hand away. 

Humiliated and rejected once more
, I wriggle away from him to the sanctuary of my own side of our marital bed and lie there in the darkness as I do every night.  The tears come, moistening my cheeks as I seek solace from my own expert fingers.  My orgasm brings a release but not fulfilment and the hatred I feel for my frigid husband deepens, frustration burning within.

 

Hitting the mute button on the alarm clock, I swing my legs out of bed and reach across to prod Alan awake.  We’ve been married for seventeen years and have two beautiful children – Joe and Bella.  Joe’s arrival coincided with the end of my sex life.  On reflection, it was a miracle that I conceived at all as Alan’s libido has always been in his boots. 

My ticking hormonal clock led me to become a devious trickster, turning my cap inside out after rare sex eventually rewarded me with a positive pregnancy test and, nine months later, my daughter. 

Joe began his embryonic life thanks to two bottles of Chablis one New Years’ Eve when Alan was too inebriated to remember birth control. 

Looking at my slumbering lump of a spouse now I wonder why we married.  My
libido has always been high but having notched up an indecent number of boyfriends by the age of twenty-two, I was ready to settle down when I met Alan at a friend’s wedding. 

Now I find myself, seventeen years on, living in a respectable three bedroom semi-detached house in a respectable village in Dorset, with a respec
table job running my own business, but with a far from respectable secret.  The secret brings a wicked smile to my lips this morning.

I retrieve the
new tight black pencil skirt and new red silk blouse, both hidden at the back of the wardrobe nestled between winter coats.  Pulling up my sheer black hold-ups I savour the sensuality of the seven-denier hose then slip my feet into new high-heeled black patent shoes.  Professional, with a hint of slutty - perfect. 

A quick glance a the bed reassures me that Alan’s still dozing but, just in case, I pull on a long cardigan and button it over my exposed décolletage.

“Looking a bit dolled up for Monday morning at the office aren’t you?” Alan grunts as I smooth down my skirt and check my appearance in the full-length mirror in our bedroom. Damn, he’s noticed.  The one time he takes any notice of my attire is the one morning I’m dressed like this.

“Yes well some of us like to make an effort with our appearance.” My reply is
venomous but, in my opinion, deserved.  Alan grunts something inaudible then heaves his overweight form out of bed and shrugs on his comfortable grey suit with boring white shirt and navy tie, as he does every week day morning.  No shower.  No wash.  He disgusts me and I despise myself for feeling this way. 

 

The kids are still eating their toast as I hurry them to the car, yelling my usual ‘goodbye, have a good day’ to Alan.  We are late again, which means Joe will again likely lose his morning break as punishment for a lateness for which he was not responsible.  I make a mental note to call his year head and apologise. 

As we sit, nose to bumper in the morning rush hour traffic, I reflect solemnly on the juggling act that is my life.  
I am mother, wife and employer – all things to many but nothing to myself.  That’s why my secret is so special; it is the first thing I have done for me and me alone and today I welcome my alter ego Elizabeth Dove, harlot and vamp.  I shiver with anticipation, pushing aside the guilt that pricks my conscience.  He’s pushed you to this, Beth.  It’s not your fault.

After dropping Joe at his junior school, Bella at secondary school,
I drive to work on autopilot.  My thoughts are consumed with a recurring fantasy of a strong virile man dressed in uniform, pinning me hard against a wall and fucking me until I beg him to stop, screaming as the strongest, much longed for, powerful orgasm rips through me. 

I run a red light and narrowly miss a real life encounter with a man in uniform but
thankfully the traffic officer is busy issuing a ticket to a youth in a black Mazda.  Crap.  Concentrate.

 

The morning passes quickly as I endeavour to clear my paperwork before lunchtime.  By eleven thirty my work is done.  I close my office door, pick up my coffee and take it to the old saggy couch where I curl my legs under me and sit comfortably.  I wake up my laptop and sip my coffee as I lose myself once again in my forbidden world of uniform dating. 

I’ve always harboured a secret fantasy about strong men overpowering me.  I’ve kept it to myself shamefully – it’s not the sort of thing one speaks about in today’s world of women’s liberation and equality, even with girlfriends.  When I watch movies in which a woman is arrested, I find myself imagining it’s me and in my mind I always resist arrest, wanting to feel the bite of handcuffs and powerful arms restraining me.  I can’t even blame these feelings on my childhood, my father was lenient with me – overly so.
  My first recollection of this perversity was aged nine.  I recall a game I forced my best friends to play in which Abigail Forrester had to be the teacher, David Seaford the headmaster and I the errant and badly behaved pupil.  Abigail, Miss Forrester, always had to send me sulkily to Mr Seaford where he would have to cane my bare bottom using my pink horse-riding crop.   Sometimes I left it at the stables after my weekly riding lesson, in which case Sir would use my slipper.  My punishment invariably stung but I liked it, and I liked the tingle I felt ‘down there’.  Abigail and David were always rewarded for playing the game – usually with ‘Hubba-Bubba’ bubble-gum or ‘Gobstoppers’ I’d bought with my pocket money.  One day Abigail said she didn’t want to play the game any more so I broke friends with her.  David, however, said he liked to play the game but he wanted me to punish him for a change.  I tried, but hated it and, soon after, broke friends with David too. 

Now, in adulthood, and with a failing and unsatisfying marriage, and plethora of women’s literary offerings on the subject, I’m insatiably curious to explore this hidden side of my persona.

When I enter my password and log in, I’m thrilled that my profile has been viewed by no less than twenty uniformed Gods since I last logged in.  Admittedly when I check their profiles in return, most are either ugly or doppelgangers of Hanibal Lecter.  One candidate catches my attention and I send him a wink.  Simon, aged thirty-eight, six feet two of testosterone packaged up in fire fighter gift-wrapping.  Delicious.  I save his profile and hope to receive a wink in return. 

I check my messages and feel a warm glow between my legs as I read a new message from Prison Guard John.

Babe, I’m so hard just thinking about meeting you today.  Don’t be late or I will take you over my knee, and spank your arse so hard, young lady, and I won’t care that we’ll be in the middle of the bookstore.  See you by Starbucks.  Remember no panties.  I want you wet and ready for me.  John xxx

I grind myself down on to my heels beneath me as I read.  The ex
citement is indescribable.  I’ve only been a member of the uniform dating site for three days and already I have a date with John who works as a prison guard, if his profile is true.  I suggested we meet today at one o’clock in the bookstore in the Blue Tide Shopping Centre.  It’s not too far from where we live, but a respectable and unlikely place to be spotted and a safe meeting point in case John is, in fact, a psychopath. 

I know this liaison would shock my
best friend Ruth Evershaw who, as a die-hard feminist, is unlikely to approve of my scheduled illicit encounter with a dominant stranger.

Reading John’s message again, I can barely endure the anticipation.

Poised to reply to the message, a knock on my office door tears me away from my laptop and back to reality.  Ruth’s mess of auburn curls appears in the doorway.  She is not only my best friend but is also my business partner.  Together we run Evershaw Dove Recruitment, a personnel recruitment agency in the south of England.  I love our business although it is a constant source of stress and has been since we founded the business six years ago.  Ruth and I have invested a considerable amount of both time and money and are now at a crossroad, whereby the business must expand or risk being succeeded by the larger players.

“Hey gorgeous,” I smile up at her.

“You’ve got your nose in that computer again!” observes Ruth, eyebrow raised.  “You are up to no good Mrs. Dove, I know that look.  I smile innocently up at her.


Wow, what are you wearing?  You look amazing.”

“Oh, this old thing? I threw it on in a rush this morning
,” I lie, thankful for the discretion afforded by the cardigan. 

She eyes me approvingly and then raises her eyebrow almost to her hairline.  “If I didn’t know you better, I would say you have a date.” 

I blush at her intuition, which serves to reinforce her suspicion.  Her eyes narrow accusingly.

“Oh my
God!” she exclaims.  “You do have a date.”

“Not a date
, Ruth, I’m a married woman.  I’m having lunch with a friend.  Sorry to disappoint, I know how you love to gossip,” I tease.  

A deep
crimson now, I put away my laptop, it is too late to email John anyway - he will be on his way to our rendezvous.  I rise casually from the couch and remove my coat from the hook by the door.  Powering down my desktop computer, I inform Ruth that her abhorrent suggestion is offensive and wrong.  Clearly she knows otherwise but leaves my office with a withering look, which serves only to heighten the guilt, which has settled in my core. 

I have time to drive carefully to the rendezvous and to try and catch a glimpse of Prison Guard John before he sees me.  That way, I figure, I can bail if he looks remotely homicidal.
  I’m so nervous. 
What if someone sees me?  How will I explain this to Alan?

 

Five minutes past one.  My hands and knees are trembling with fear and expectancy as I lean against the wall adjacent to the entrance of the in-store Starbucks.  I am without panties and, as instructed, wet with anticipation. 

The bookstore is surprisingl
y busy and I’m frantically scanning faces.  My line of sight is set above six foot.  Prison Guard John’s profile stated he stands six foot, one inch.  The one small photograph on the site personified impeccable affair material with a tousled mop of dark hair and chiselled features. 

I feel a vice like grip on my arm and look up.  Then
look down.  There, standing at least ten inches below my line of sight is a receding mop of sandy coloured hair exaggerating an already too high forehead.  My guilty pleasure has become my secret nightmare.

“Babe.  You look even better than your pic.  Come here and give Johnny a kiss.”  He rocks up onto tiptoes and plants a wet, firm kiss on my lips before I am able to turn my cheek to him.  At five feet, t
en inches I tower above the man and my ardour fizzles away instantaneously. How the hell do I get myself out of this situation?  Think quickly, Beth.

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