The Anniversary Stories

Lexy

Harper

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The

Anniversary

Stories

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A
ll characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance
to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

The text
of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in
any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,
storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission
of the publisher or author, except for brief quotes used in reviews.

First
published in Great Britain 2012

Copyright
© 2010 Lexy Harper

All Rights
Reserved.

www.lexyharper.com

Published
by Ebonique Publishing, London.

A
note from the author

I usually write Black romance and erotica,
but I wrote the story
Is the Tramp a Lady?
to submit to Every Night
Erotica who have a 2000-word limit per submission.  Halfway through writing I
had passed that limit and was really enjoying the story.  It became the first of the standalone
wedding anniversary stories based on the happily married couple, John &
Helen Elliot, and a favourite story of visitors to my Literotica author page
and my website.

I’m hoping that the story inspires couples,
especially those who feel their sex lives are becoming a little stagnant, to
revamp their sex lives by spicing it up with a little fantasy or roleplay.

Is the Tramp a Lady?

Isn’t a Sister’s Love the Best?

It’s Good to be Neighbourly!

Other titles by Lexy Harper

J
ohn Elliot drove the bus into
the depot with a sigh of relief.  His muscles ached from being in the driving
seat for the last eight hours with only two short breaks.  Switching the engine
off, he stood and turned to make a quick visual check of the bus.

“Ma’am?” he said in surprise
when he noticed the lone woman seated on the left in the third row of seats. 
“This is the last stop.”

“I’m sorry,” she apologized,
getting to her feet.  “I thought you made one more trip.”

“Only on weeknights,” he
explained.  “On Saturdays the last bus finishes an hour early.”

The woman picked up her small
bag which looked as though it contained all her worldly possessions.  She had
an elegance and dignity about her although it looked as though she had nowhere
to sleep for the night.  John’s heart when out to her—like it had done every
time he had seen a stray dog or cat when he was a boy.  His parents had scolded
him for bringing in the strays, but had allowed him to rescue as many as he’d
wanted.  Until he had picked up a cat with Feline Upper Respiratory Infection
which had infected all the other cats.  He learned a hard lesson and no matter
how pitiful a stray looked he had never taken another one home again.

The woman walked to a bench
and sat on it, her bag held tightly in her lap.

John went in to the office,
turned off the lights and closed up for the night.  Then opening the doors of
his Ford Mondeo remotely as he approached, he kept his head resolutely
forwards.

Yet, as he started the engine,
he found himself looking through his rear-view mirror at the woman, praying that
she would be okay.

Feeling terrible for leaving her,
prey to anyone with evil intentions, he sped away quickly.

He turned left at the next
corner, then left at the next and then left again.  Another left and he was
back where he had started.

Instead of driving into the depot
he parked his car outside and observed the woman.  She was still sitting on the
bench, her back straight, her head held high, proudly.

His wife, Helen, wasn’t home;
he really shouldn’t take a woman to the house.  Ordinarily Helen wouldn’t mind,
but she would be more than a little suspicious if he brought a woman to the
house on a night
she
wasn’t home.  Especially a redhead.  Why couldn’t
the woman have been blonde or brunette?  If the woman had been older and looked
like a downtrodden tramp Helen might have been more understanding, but the
woman was beautiful and though he had caught her hot, musky scent as she had
passed him on her way off the bus, it was obvious that she had either found
somewhere to wash as often as she could or hadn’t been on the road for long.

A burly man walked passed the
entrance of the depot, glanced in and continued on his way.  Fifty metres on,
he turned and retraced his steps.  John tensed as the man turned into the depot,
headed straight for the woman and sat next to her on the bench, dwarfing her as
he leaned close and engaged her in conversation.  She kept shaking her head until
suddenly he stood up and grasped her arm roughly, pulling her upright against
his larger body.

John was out of the car and
hurrying towards them in an instant.

“Hey!” he shouted as he
neared them.  “Leave her alone!”

“Who’s going to make me?” 
The man looked dismissively over his shoulder at John’s slim built and kept
hold of the woman.

“I am,” John informed him
quietly, bringing the gun in his hand into view.  It was only a toy which
belonged to his five-year-old, Tim, but the man couldn’t know that.  “If you
don’t want a bullet between your eyes, let her go now!”

“Cool it, mate!  She’s all
yours if you want her.”  The man backed away nervously and John watched him
hurry away with contempt.  For all his massive size, the man was a wimp.

“Are you alright?” he asked
the woman worriedly.

“I’m fine, thank you.  He
offered to share his bed with me for the night and was a little put out that I
refused,” she explained.

“It’s not safe here.  Is
there nowhere you can spend the night?”

“Please don’t concern
yourself with me,” she said quietly.  “I’ll be fine.”

“I can’t leave you here,”
John protested.

“I’m not your concern,” she
insisted.

“Look, it’s too deserted
here.  At least let me take you somewhere the shops are open all night or somewhere
there are other people around.”

She looked at him and then at
the gun he still held in his hand.  Hastily, he slipped it behind him and into
his waistband, out of sight.

“I don’t want to go to
anywhere noisy.  I’m desperately tired—I need somewhere quiet where I can get
some sleep.”

“If you sleep here you’re
likely to end up raped or murdered,” he told her flatly, finally losing
patience.  All he wanted was a shower and his bed.  But he would toss and turn
all night if he left her here.  If anything happened to her he would never
forgive himself.

“And how do I know that
you’re not a rapist or a murderer?” she asked.

“You don’t.”  He felt surprised
that she could think
him
capable of harming her.  But, he reasoned, most
serial killers were persuasive smooth talkers.

“I’m sorry, that was rude of
me,” she apologized.  “It’s been a long day.”

“Look, my wife’s not home,
but I’m sure she wouldn’t mind you coming home with me for a bite to eat and a
shower,” John offered.  He wouldn’t get a wink of sleep if he had to think of
her out here on her own, prey to thieves, rapists or murderers.

“Your wife must really trust
you.”

“She’ll be fine once I’ve
explained the situation to her.”

“In that case I think I’d
like to accept.  Thank you.”

Abruptly she turned and
headed towards his parked car.  Hurrying, he overtook her and held the door
open.  He closed it once she was safely seated.  When he came around the car he
was pleasantly surprised to find that she had leaned over and was politely holding
his door open for him.

He thanked her as he fastened
his seat belt.

“Normally, I wouldn’t dream
of trusting a stranger, but....” she broke off.

“You are perfectly safe with
me,” he assured her.

They drove in complete
silence—the woman immediately tipped her head back against the headrest and fell
asleep within a minute of him pulling away from the kerb.  She hadn’t lied
about being exhausted.

He shook her gently when he
had parked the car in the garage and switched off the engine.  “We’re here.”

“Are you sure this will be
okay?”  Revived from her short nap she didn’t seem keen on the idea.

“Look, do you want me to call
my wife and check first?”

“No, don’t do that,” she
begged him hastily.  “It’s late.  I don’t think she would appreciate being
awoken from her sleep. I just don’t want you to get into any trouble.”

“My wife and I have been
married for six years.  I think she knows me well enough by now.”

“Sorry to seem so
ungrateful.”  Clutching her small bag she made to open the door, but he quickly
reached around her and opened it.

Once again her hot, musky scent
filled his nostrils.  It was her perfume, he realized.  It wasn’t unpleasant,
just stronger than his wife’s subtle floral scent.  But then, his wife was a
cool blonde; this woman was a fiery redhead—the kind he’d secretly fantasized
about when he had masturbated as a young man.

***

H
e imagined her in the shower washing
that curtain of red hair that fell to her waist.  He had given her one of his
bathrobes to wear after her shower—giving her one of Helen’s wouldn’t have been
right.

His cock was harder than it had
been in ages.  His face was hot, flushed with desire.

God, he hoped she wouldn’t
notice the state he was in!

Getting up, he fiddled with
the place settings.  She had been obviously hungry but had insisted on having a
bath first, saying that she wouldn’t feel right sitting in one of the chairs in
the same filthy clothes she had been sitting around in all day.

“I feel human again.  Thank
you.”

John turned and watched her
as she walked into the room.  She had piled her slightly damp hair carelessly
on top of her head.  It gave her a sultry look and made him notice the
incredible length of her neck for the first time.  His bathrobe swamped her and
even though she had pulled the sash tightly, it gaped at the front showing a
generous amount of cleavage, and he realized as he looked down, almost the
entire lengths of her toned legs as she walked towards him.  Her toenails  were
painted a surprising red and for an insane moment he wanted to beg her to rub
her high-arched aristocratic feet over the bulge in his trousers.

Oh God, he thought in dismay
as he got a full view of her breasts as he pulled out the chair and seated her
before going to the other end of the square table.  Her breasts were beautiful—not
the firm, slightly hard mounds of a younger woman, but the soft, full curves of
a mature woman who had perhaps given birth and breastfed a child or two.  Her
nipples were a deep pink and amazingly distended.  If she hadn’t breastfed a
child or children, he thought, then there must have been a husband, boyfriend
or girlfriend who had sucked on the tempting peaks constantly.

“I’m afraid it’s only
leftover roast chicken,” he apologized.  “I can’t cook.  My wife baked a whole
chicken yesterday and there was enough for dinner tonight.  She’s back
tomorrow, thank God!”

“Chicken is just fine, thank
you.”  She held out her plate as he forked several slices of moist chicken
breast on to it and then held up a hand when it seemed as though he wanted to
give her more than her share.  “That’s enough, thanks.”

“Are you sure?  I ate a late
lunch and I’m not that hungry.”  He wanted to make sure that she had enough to
eat.  He could make do with whatever was left.

She smiled as if she knew he
was telling a white lie. “I’m quite sure.”

They ate the meal in
silence.  John had never realized how cosy the little dining table was before. 
It was ideal for his family of four.  When the twins were younger it had been
convenient for him and his wife to have them close in case they needed help
with feeding themselves.  But as they had grown older Helen had adamantly refused
to purchase a larger table, not wanting to lose the intimacy of their family
meals.

It was erotic to watch her
take dainty bites and chew slowly when he knew that she must be ravenously
hungry.

He hadn’t asked her name he
suddenly realized, but it was too late now to do so without embarrassment.  His
prim and proper mother would have scolded him soundly for not immediately
making the lady’s acquaintance.

“You can sleep in the spare
room,” he offered, knowing that she desperately needed a good night’s sleep.

“Thank you, but no.  You
kindly offered me food and a shower and I’m grateful for those.  When I’m done
here I will get dressed and you can take me to a shelter.”

“I think you need a decent
night’s sleep.  Don’t worry, there is a lock on the door—you’ll be perfectly
safe.”

She opened her mouth to
protest, and then suddenly smiled.

“Perhaps, I will take you up
on your kind offer.  You’ve been driving all day.  It would be a shame to make
you go back into the cold.  And I really could do with a soft bed and clean
sheets tonight.”

“It’s the third door on the
left,” he told her as he got up and gathered the dishes, protesting as she made
to help him, “No, no.  You go on through. 
I’ll
put these into the
dishwasher.”

“Goodnight.”  She stood
awkwardly twisting the sash of his robe.

“Goodnight,” he responded,
his heart beating a little faster as he reached for the platter which now
contained the meagre remains of the roasted chicken.

She approached and quickly
pecked him on the cheek before turning and hurrying from the room.

Hastily, he put the platter
down and rested his hands on the table as he took deep steadying breaths.  He
was fully and painfully aroused...and all by one innocent kiss on the cheek!

***

J
ohn thought that he would have
immediately fallen asleep; he’d had a long week and had eagerly looked forward
to having the day off today.  But Carl, one of his most reliable drivers, had
called in sick and he’d had to step in and cover the bus route.  His wasn’t a
large bus company, but the poorer members of the community relied on the
service and he had vowed when he had bought the badly-run company from its
drunken previous owner that reliability would be his watchword.

He was exhausted, yet he
couldn’t sleep.

He felt edgy with the woman
in the house and wondered if she was sleeping.

She was the embodiment of all
his fantasies.  He had berated close friends for cheating on their wives,
thinking them weak and dishonourable.  He had been so sure that he would never
be tempted himself.  He had a beautiful wife and two healthy, gorgeous
children.  He wasn’t a devout Christian, but he went to church often enough to
feel guilty about his attraction to the woman in the spare room.  She was a
temptress and he was at his most vulnerable.

He hadn’t really paid her
much attention on the way home.  She was just a woman in need of help, but it
was as if her fairy godmother had waved a wand and transformed her in the shower. 
The image of her as he looked up from straightening the cutlery seemed burnt on
his retinas.  She had been alluring, innocently provocative, in his overlarge
robe.  And the totally unexpected red toenail polish.  He had wanted—

John tensed as he heard light
footsteps outside his door.  A minute later the knob turned and the door pushed
open.  She walked in still wearing his bathrobe and in her bare feet.