The Other Mrs Enwright Pt. 03

This is the final instalment in this series, hope you enjoy, please leave comments....

Part 3

Chapter 11

Saturday morning arrived like any other Saturday. The newspaper on the hall table. The smell of coffee from the kitchen. The sun light shining brightly through the garden room windows.

I came downstairs at eight thirty in my good robe with my hair combed and my face on and made coffee and set the table for four.

Charles came down at nine in his weekend clothes. He poured himself coffee and said good morning and asked whether I had seen the gardening section of the paper. I said I hadn't. He found it and sat at the table and read it. I made toast.

Max appeared at nine fifteen in shorts and a t-shirt, hair from sleep. He stood staring into the open refrigerator in the way he always did. He made himself coffee. He sat at the table. He asked Charles something about golf.

Chanelle came down at nine thirty dressed, hair done. She kissed me on the cheek and poured coffee and sat across from Max and they discussed something about a friend's party later in the week.

I sat at the table with my coffee and my toast and the social pages and read about a fundraising dinner I had attended in March.

Nobody mentioned the previous evening.

The butter was passed. The newspaper was shared. Max finished his toast and made more. Chanelle asked whether we needed milk and when I said yes she added it to her phone.

Charles refilled my coffee without being asked.

I thanked him.

The week passed in its ordinary way.

Tuesday was the altar guild. I sat in my usual seat and listened to the discussion about the Easter arrangements and agreed that the third Sunday would work better for the flowers. Wednesday was the board meeting. Thursday I had lunch with Susan, who wanted to discuss the Founders' Dinner seating plan. I said I would look into it.

I forgot to look into it.

Friday Charles had a client dinner and came home at ten. I was already in bed with my book. He got in beside me and I turned off the light and lay in the dark and listened to him fall asleep and looked at the ceiling.

Saturday came.

We had dinner. Lamb again, as it happened. Charles opened a good bottle and commented on it. I said it was very nice. Max had seconds. Chanelle cleared the plates.

The sitting room was warm. Charles had lit the fire after dinner, which he did on autumn evenings without being asked, one of the reliable habits of twenty-seven years.

I was in my chair with my book. Charles was in his with the newspaper. Chanelle was on the sofa with her legs tucked beneath her, her phone face down on the cushion, watching something on the television with the sound low. Max was at the other end of the sofa with his feet on the coffee table until Chanelle pushed them off without looking at him and he put them back on the floor.

Ordinary. The fire. The wine. The low sound of the television.

I turned a page.

Chanelle looked at me.

I looked at her.

Nothing was said. She picked up her wine glass and looked back at the television.

Charles turned a page of the newspaper.

"Good programme?" he said. To Chanelle.

"Mm," she said.

He looked at Max. "How was Friday night."

"Good," Max said.

Charles nodded and returned to the newspaper.

I set my book face down on the arm of the chair.

The fire moved. Outside the wind had come up and the garden was dark beyond the window.

"Last weekend," Chanelle said. To the room, to no one specifically. "Was interesting."

Charles lowered the newspaper an inch.

I looked at the fire.

"I thought so," I said.

"Max?" Chanelle said.

Max looked at her. Then at me. "Yes," he said.

"Interesting how," Charles said.

Nobody answered him immediately. The television said something. Chanelle reached for the remote and turned it off.

The room was quieter with the fire in it.

"I've been thinking about it," Chanelle said. "Since."

"So have I," I said.

Charles folded the newspaper and set it on his knee. He looked at me, then at Chanelle, then at Max. He had the look of a man who has walked into a room where a conversation has been going on for some time and is trying to locate his place in it.

"What exactly," he said, "are we talking about."

I looked at him.

He held my gaze.

"Last weekend, Charles," I said. "You were there."

His jaw tightened fractionally.

"Yes," he said. "I was."

"And," I said.

He was quiet for a moment.

"And it was--" he stopped. He looked at the fire. Something moved across his face. "Yes," he said. "It was."

Max had not moved. He sat at his end of the sofa with his wine glass on his knee, watching the fire.

Chanelle looked at me with an expression hat said she knew exactly where this was going and had been waiting with some patience for it to arrive.

I set my wine glass on the side table.

"I think," I said, "that we should go upstairs."

Charles said, "For what purpose exactly?"

I held his gaze.

He stopped.

I stood.

Chanelle stood.

Max put his wine glass on the coffee table and stood.

Charles looked at the three of us standing in his sitting room in the firelight and then he set the newspaper on the side table and stood as well.

"I'd like to know," he said, "what's being--"

I silenced him with a look, and walked to the door.

Behind me I heard the fire settle. The four of us moved toward the stairs.

I entered the bedroom first.

The harness was on the bed where I had left it that afternoon. The lube on the nightstand. The room was dim, one lamp on, the curtain drawn against the autumn dark.

I stood at the foot of the bed and turned around.

They filed in behind me. Max first, then Chanelle, then Charles, who stopped just inside the doorway and looked at the bed and then at me and then at the bed again.

I looked at Charles and Max.

"Get undressed," I said. "Both of you."

Max pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it on the chair. His shorts followed. He stood without self-consciousness, which had always been his way.

Charles looked at Max. He looked at me.

"Martha--"

"Charles."

He undressed. Shirt on the hanger. Trousers folded. Socks last. He stood completely naked. I looked at his dick. In another world I might have thought he was anxious, but I knew whatever his state of mind, it wouldn't improve things down there. He looked at me with the expression he had been wearing all evening -- a man who understood that events had moved past the point where he could redirect them and was deciding how to carry himself through what remained.

Chanelle settled herself in the chair in the corner and tucked her legs beneath her and watched.

I picked up the lube from the nightstand and held it out to Charles.

He looked at it.

"You'll want that," I said.

"What for," he said.

"You know what for," I said.

He looked at the bottle. He did not take it.

I set it on the bed beside him and turned to Max.

"Sit on the edge of the bed," I said.

Max sat.

I looked at Charles.

"On your knees," I said.

Charles looked at Max sitting in front of him. He looked at me. He looked at Chanelle in the chair.

"Martha, I don't think--"

"Charles." My voice was level. "On your knees."

He knelt.

Max looked at him steadily.

Charles looked at me one more time.

"You know what to do," I said.

He turned back to Max and took him in his mouth.

The room was quiet except for the small sounds of it. Chanelle's hand moved in her lap. I watched Charles's head move and watched Max's jaw tighten and said nothing and let it run for a while.

"Enough," I said.

Charles sat back on his heels. Saliva painted his chin.

I picked up the lube from the bed and held it out to him again.

"You've been waiting for this," I said. "Whether you knew it or not."

He took the bottle and looked at it and looked at the floor and looked at Max and looked at me. He swallowed, his throat working.

"I don't--" he said. "I'm not sure I can."

I drew a breath and waited.

Chanelle said nothing.

Max said nothing.

Charles uncapped the bottle.

He reached behind himself.

His face changed when he did it. I watched it change. The careful composure he had maintained through dinner and the sitting room and the walk upstairs dissolved in one movement as his fingers found their mark and he understood, in his body rather than his mind, that this was happening and that he had chosen it.

He worked slowly. His eyes were on the floor.

"Two fingers," I said.

He complied.

A sound left him that he swallowed immediately.

"Good," I said. "Stay there."

I took the harness from the bed and stepped into it. Buckled both hips. Clicked the phallus into the ring. Tightened it.

I took the bottle from Charles's hand.

"On all fours," I said.

He moved into position. Hands and knees on the bed, his back flat, his head forward.

I lubed the phallus and positioned myself behind him and pressed the head against him.

He tensed.

"You know what this feels like," I said. "You've been here before."

"That was--" he said. "That was different."

"It isn't," I said.

I pressed forward.

His hands gripped the sheet and his back rose and I put one hand flat between his shoulder blades and pressed him back down and pushed steadily until he had taken all of it and stopped.

He was breathing through his mouth.

I held him there for a moment. Let him feel what full meant.

Then I began to move.

I set my own pace. Long and unhurried. The strap found my clitoris on each stroke and I let it build and watched the muscles of his back shift with each thrust and held his hips and drove forward.

In the chair Chanelle had her hand inside her robe.

Max stood at the side of the bed, his eyes moved between his father's face and impaled ass.

I drove deeper.

Charles's sounds had stopped being swallowed. They arrived as they arrived and he had run out of the effort it took to contain them.

I looked at Max.

He looked at me.

I withdrew.

Charles stayed where he was, hands and knees, breathing.

"Max," I said. "Take my place."

Max moved onto the bed behind his father. He was fully hard, still slick from Charles's mouth. He pressed against Charles and looked at me.

I nodded once.

He pushed forward.

Charles's head dropped. His whole body received it and his hands pulled at the sheet and he made a sound that had nothing of his professional life in it, nothing of twenty-seven years of composure and careful management. Just the sound of a man at the end of himself finding something unexpected waiting there.

Max established a rhythm and I watched it for a moment and then I looked at Chanelle.

She was already standing.

She came to me and pushed my robe from my shoulders and went to her knees in front of me and I put my hand in her hair and looked back at the bed.

"Harder," I said to Max.

He drove forward.

Charles groaned.

Chanelle's mouth found me and I tightened my hand in her hair and looked at my husband on all fours taking his son and felt the pleasure climb through me and kept my eyes open because I wanted to see all of it.

"Charles," I said.

He lifted his head.

"Look at me," I said.

He looked at me. His face was wrecked and open and entirely honest in a way it had never been across a dinner table or in a courtroom or at any point in the twenty-seven years I had sat beside him at events and smiled at the right moments.

I held his gaze while his daughter worked her mouth against me and his son drove into him from behind and I came with my hand in Chanelle's hair and my eyes on his face and did not look away.

Chanelle sat back on her heels.

I looked at Max.

"Finish," I said.

He gripped Charles's hips and drove hard three times and on the fourth his whole body went rigid and he pressed forward and stayed there and Charles felt it and his head dropped again and Max groaned once and then the room was still.

Max withdrew.

He knelt up on the bed.

I looked at Charles.

"Turn around," I said.

He turned. He looked at Max kneeling in front of him and he looked at me.

"Clean it," I said.

He did it.

I watched him take Max in his mouth a second time and work him clean and then sit back on his heels with his eyes down.

"Good," I said.

I looked at Chanelle.

She moved to the bed and lay back against the pillows and looked at her father.

"Charles," I said.

He looked at me.

I nodded toward Chanelle.

He moved between her legs without being told twice. He lowered his face and I watched him begin and watched Chanelle's hand go to the back of his head and press him down.

"Back first," Chanelle said. Her voice was entirely steady. "Then forward. All of it."

I stood at the foot of the bed with my robe on the floor and the harness still buckled and watched my husband work his tongue into his daughter's ass, then forward to her clit and back again..

This was the room I had built.

These were my people in their proper places.

Chanelle's thighs closed around Charles's head and her back arched off the bed and she pressed him harder into her and then her whole body shook and what came from her hit his face in a long warm rush and he stayed where he was and kept working and she pressed down harder still and came again before the first one had finished.

She released him.

He sat back on his heels.

His face was wet. His eyes were down.

I looked at him for a long moment.

"You may touch yourself," I said.

He looked up at me.

"Go on," I said.

He reached down. Three fingers, as always, working what was available. Kneeling on the bed between his daughter's feet, his son beside him, his wife standing at the foot watching with the harness still strapped to her hips.

He lasted less than a minute.

When it was over he stayed kneeling with his head down and his hands in his lap and waited.

I unclipped the harness and let it drop to the floor.

"Clean yourself up," I said. "Change the sheets."

I looked at Max. Then at Chanelle.

"Goodnight," I said.

I picked up my robe and walked to the door and closed it behind me.

The bathroom was quiet.

I ran the bath. Added oil. Undressed and folded everything over the rail and lowered myself into the water.

Third configuration. Then fifth.

I lay back and looked at the ceiling and listened to the house above me. Footsteps. A door. Water running somewhere. The sounds of a household settling into its night.

I pressed the seventh configuration.

The woman who had sat bolt upright in this bath ten weeks ago, who had covered her mouth with both hands and looked at the locked door and dressed herself in the correct order and gone downstairs to find Charles -- she was not gone. She would be at the altar guild on Tuesday. She would have lunch with Susan and discuss the Founders' Dinner seating plan and this time she would remember to look into it.

She would pass the butter at breakfast.

She would smile at the right moments.

And when the doors closed she would be this.

My knees fell apart under the water.

I closed my eyes.

I did not cover my mouth.