Neil Neil Orange Peel

Wednesdays were a bit quieter in the Town, so if we fancied a night out, we would go to the Social Club for a game of bingo and a few drinks, then we would go to one of the pubs, usually the Crown.

The Crown used to be a cinema years ago, but it got closed down and turned into a pub, so, as you can imagine, it was quite big.

I always persuaded Scott to come. He was my friend and worked behind the bar in the club, so after work we'd go on to the Crown. I wouldn't say it was a regular thing on a Wednesday, but it soon became just that.

This particular night was quite busy. As we stood in the queue to get served at the bar, I was having a little nose around to see who was in.

As I turned round and faced the entrance, I saw this guy come in.

He was very distinguished -- grey hair, glasses, medium build. Very nice.

He was wearing grey slacks, a grey jacket with a zip up the front, a pink polo shirt underneath and ankle boots.

I looked down immediately at his wedding finger and noticed he had a big, fat wedding ring on.

Married.

Well, that put him firmly in the "look but don't touch" category.

So I turned back to Scott at the bar.

After what seemed like ages queueing, I got a tap on the shoulder.

I turned round, and it was the gentleman I had just seen coming in.

"Excuse me, can I buy you a drink?" he said.

I looked at his hand.

His wedding ring had vanished.

There was just a little ring mark around his finger.

Well, well, well.

Apparently the marriage had gone missing before the man had.

You all know me.

"Yes," I said. "I'll have a cognac with a little squirt of Coke, please -- and you can put your wedding ring back on."

He looked down at his hand and felt embarrassed.

He still went to the bar and got me my drink.

We got chatting, and I told him I was used to married men chatting me up. I could never find a single man.

The banter passed between us, and he asked me if I smoked.

"Yes."

So we went outside for a cigarette, and our conversation deepened.

He told me he was married but that they lived separate lives, although they were still living in the same home.

I asked, "Where is she tonight?"

He told me she was a nurse and was on night shift.

And suddenly, that little detail seemed rather important.

She was at work.

Somewhere else.

And she wouldn't be home for hours.

He said he worked offshore and hardly returned to the marital home, as he had a place out in Cyprus.

Whether any of that was true, I have no idea.

His wealth had nothing to do with the attraction. It was his looks and his intelligence that drew me closer to him.

We talked about everything and anything that night.

The pub began to slowly empty.

Then he said he would love to take me home to his house.

His house.

His wife's house, too, really.

There was something incredibly naughty about a married man wanting to take me back to the very home he shared with his wife.

Everything he had told me could have been lies.

I didn't know.

But I was intrigued.

We never exchanged numbers or emails. If I was out on a Wednesday, I would see him. That was the only way we could find each other.

And perhaps that made it even more exciting.

No phone calls.

No messages.

No arranging anything.

Just Wednesdays.

The first time he took me home, I walked through the front door and immediately realised this wasn't some anonymous bachelor pad.

There was a photograph in the hallway near the front door of his wife in her cap and gown, holding a scroll.

And there she was.

Right by the front door.

The first thing I saw as I came into her home was her face smiling back at me from the photograph.

It was almost as if she was there to greet me herself.

She was completely unaware of me, of course.

She was on night shift, doing her job, while I was standing in her hallway with her husband.

That photograph made her absence feel strangely immediate.

She wasn't just some vague wife he'd told me about in the pub.

She was a real woman with a face, a life, achievements and belongings -- and a photograph proudly displayed in her own home.

And I was now part of a secret she knew nothing about.

It made the whole thing feel even naughtier.

He took me straight to the bathroom.

And there were little reminders of her everywhere.

Her toiletries.

Her hairbrush.

Her perfume.

Her slippers.

All the ordinary things that told me a woman lived here.

And there I was.

In her bathroom.

With her husband.

She was only absent because she was at work.

That made it completely different from meeting someone in a hotel or somewhere anonymous.

This wasn't anonymous.

This was personal.

This was her home.

And knowing exactly where she was somehow made it even more thrilling.

He slowly stripped my clothes from my body.

He was so gentle, so submissive yet so assertive.

Is that even possible?

You'd think I'd have been embarrassed standing there in my birthday suit, but I wasn't.

He hadn't been drinking because he was driving, so he was sober.

I was, let's say, tipsy.

The shower was huge. He opened the big glass door and we stepped inside.

He played with the buttons until he got the temperature just right.

I'd never seen anything like it. Water came at you from every angle.

It was superb.

He picked up a natural sponge, opened the shower gel and squeezed some onto it.

Then he proceeded to wash every inch of my body -- meticulously, slowly, teasingly.

He wanted me turned on before I even had the towel wrapped around me.

And he certainly knew how to take his time.

He kissed me, then pulled away just when I thought he was going to give me what I wanted.

He teased me mercilessly, sometimes so gently it drove me mad, then suddenly a little more boldly, just enough to make me ache for him.

I wanted him.

And he knew it.

That was the maddening thing about Neil. He seemed to know exactly how far to take me and then stop, leaving me wanting more.

It was pure torment.

Delicious, wicked torment.

It was just foreplay, and I was enjoying every second of it.

He looked good wet.

His chest hair clung to his skin, and his mouth found mine, kissing me hard.

His tongue was probing my mouth, slowly exploring.

Everything about him seemed deliberate.

He then switched off the shower and grabbed a big, fluffy towel and wrapped me in it.

He quickly dried the top half of himself and then wrapped a towel around his waist.

Then he proceeded to pat me dry.

He didn't rub.

He was gentle.

Almost ridiculously gentlemanly considering what we were both thinking.

He patted me dry and then led me to the bedroom.

He threw back the quilt and waited for me to lay down.

And there it was again.

Another reminder that this was the marital bedroom.

His wife's bedroom.

Her bed.

Her home.

And I was lying there with her husband.

There was something almost surreal about it. I remember thinking that if the walls could talk, they would have had an awful lot to say.

He climbed onto the bed beside me, and we lay together.

His hands moved slowly over me, exploring, teasing, never quite giving me what I wanted.

I was already on the edge.

He seemed to know exactly what effect he was having on me, and I think he enjoyed making me wait.

Every time I thought he was finally going to stop teasing me, he would pull back just enough to leave me wanting more.

It was maddening.

And delicious.

I wanted him, and he knew it.

That was his little game.

He would get me to the point where I thought, surely now, and then make me wait a little longer.

I could have told him to stop teasing me and get on with it, but where would have been the fun in that?

There was something about his confidence that I found incredibly sexy.

He seemed completely at ease, as though he had all the time in the world.

I certainly didn't.

I was already impatient.

He looked at me with that knowing expression, as if he could read exactly what was going through my mind.

"Please, can I eat you?" he asked.

How could I refuse?

I remember thinking that this man really did know how to make a woman feel wanted.

He seemed to discover all the little things that made me react, patiently working out what made me melt and what made me want more.

He took his time.

That was the thing about Neil.

He didn't rush.

He built the anticipation until I was almost beside myself, then made me wait again.

At one point he had me right on the edge of losing control and told me not yet.

I almost begged him.

Almost.

But I trusted him.

And somehow that made the teasing even more intense.

Eventually the teasing gave way to passion, and everything that had been building between us finally broke loose.

There was no thought of the pub anymore.

No thought of the journey home.

No thought of anything except the two of us and the extraordinary chemistry between us.

It was passionate, consuming and completely uninhibited.

And yet, in the back of my mind, there was still that deliciously wicked thought.

His wife was at work.

Her photograph was in the hallway.

Her things were around us.

And here I was in her bedroom with her husband.

That knowledge seemed to add another layer to everything.

It was naughty.

It was reckless.

And, if I'm honest, I loved the sheer wickedness of it.

When it was over, I remember lying there thinking how extraordinary the whole evening had been.

Who would have thought that a quiet Wednesday night at the Crown would end with me in a married man's bed?

Certainly not me.

It carried on for several weeks.

We had no way of getting in touch, obviously, so if he was out, he was out. If he was away, he was probably away working.

There were no texts.

No phone calls.

No secret arrangements.

Just Wednesdays.

And whenever I saw him at the Crown, I knew exactly where the evening might end.

I couldn't say no to him.

He was just too good at it.

But after a while, it fizzled out.

Maybe he did go to Cyprus.

Maybe he stopped working offshore.

Or maybe he simply decided to stop cheating on his wife.

After all, if they really were living separate lives, surely he wouldn't wear his wedding ring when he was going out.

And yet he did.

That always made me wonder.

Perhaps taking it off was part of the game.

Perhaps he liked pretending to be single for a few hours.

Or perhaps he just didn't want another woman looking at his hand and thinking, "Married -- keep away."

Whatever the truth was, I'll never know.

But I do know one thing.

He certainly knew how to take a Wednesday night and turn it into something I would remember.

And perhaps that missing wedding ring was the first clue that Neil was going to be trouble.

Neil, Neil, orange peel.