54 , livre ebook

Mrf Productions Ltd. - Cameron Brooke

Découvre YouScribe en t'inscrivant gratuitement

Je m'inscris

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

106 pages

English

Vous pourrez modifier la taille du texte de cet ouvrage

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

A propos
Informations
Extrait

Description

First passion, first love, first sex. Lost for almost forty years, but never forgotten. To meet again, to rediscover each other... a dream come true, or a nightmare?

Sujets

Erotic literature

Informations

Publié par	Mrf Productions Ltd.
Date de parution	03 avril 2013
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781783010745
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0100€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

54 first love
............ first passion, first love, first sex. Lost for almost forty years, but never forgotten ..... to meet again, to re-discover each other ...... a dream come true, or a nightmare ..........
Copyright © 2013 by Mrf Productions Ltd.
This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
ISBN: 978-1-78301-074-5
email: cameron.brooke.54@gmail.com
twitter: @54CameronBrooke
cover design by Matthew Major. cover image by Robert Twigg.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter One
She put the lipstick down and took a moment to study the face in the mirror. As she leaned closer and saw herself in detail a long heartfelt sigh escaped her lips. Laughter lines were one thing; crows feet were quite another. The make-up certainly helped, as would the low lighting in the bar, but there was no ignoring the passage of time-that inexorable, dreadful passage of time.
Her neck was becoming stringy, her top lip had started to line, and her cleavage-when she dared to show it-was best forgotten about. There were liver spots on the back of her hands and her skin seemed thinner, more paper-like, every day. She thanked god that she had never smoked.
Reaching for the make-up once more, she wiped away another year or two. Sometimes she wished she could wipe half her life away. A line from a Paul Simon song popped up in her head: ‘a bad day’s when I lie lay in bed and think of things that might have been.’ Was her life slip-sliding away?
She had never been one to dwell on the past, or at least she managed to keep it where it belonged, firmly in the past. She could put memories, experiences, even emotions into little mental boxes and lock them tightly away. Live for today had always been her motto, but increasingly she found herself in front of the mirror, or gazing out of a window wondering about how life might have been, the paths she might have taken, the opportunities she had missed, or worse still, the chances that she had chosen to ignore, and had locked into little boxes, convincing herself that such chances were not for the likes of her. She wondered how her life might have been, but rarely - if ever - about what it might still be. Her life, like most other people’s, was decided, ordered, set in stone.
Sounds from the bar downstairs broke through her reverie and she realised it was time to show that face; time to make her nightly smiling appearance, and allow her husband to stop work and play pool with his pals. She picked up the bright red lipstick and took one last look before painting on her smile.
*
The pub was a lot busier than usual, but, as was standard, her husband was propping up the bar and chatting to two of his friends while the new barmaid was doing all the work. Smile fixed convincingly in place, Susan stepped up to the bar and took the first order of what promised be a busy, long, profitable and tedious night. She was used to Eric barely working, that hardly bothered her anymore, but as she stood beside Amanda her earlier mood returned and she really started to feel her age.
Amanda was nineteen, blonde, very pretty and had stunning breasts. Susan sometimes wondered how much they had cost her, and how she had earned them. She knew such bitchy thoughts were beneath her, and unfair to Amanda, but it was hard to do all the work and then be outshone by a slip of a girl. Hard and unfair - but that was life. Several of the locals smiled their welcome, but all eyes quickly moved back to Amanda. All eyes except Eric’s.
*
Lying in bed that night, exhausted but denied the sleep she so craved (due to the combination of hot flushes and Eric’s window-rattling snoring), Susan found herself thinking about her life. No, she wasn’t thinking about her life - she didn’t have a life of her own, but there again, who did after thirty years of marriage?
She tried to push the thoughts away as silly but they kept floating back to the front of her mind, along with the Paul Simon song-it hadn’t left her head all night. To own a pub had always been Eric’s dream and, because he was her husband, and that meant they were a partnership, she had supported him; but she had never told him that running a pub had been her worst nightmare; and that was before they had moved in. The reality of pub life was far worse than she could have ever imagined.
They had virtually no free time. They lived in cramped and shabby rooms above the ‘shop’, and she spent most of her working day being polite to people she hardly knew and certainly didn’t care about.
To make things even worse, she had to deal with drunks almost every night; usually drunks who thought they were the funniest or sexiest men on the planet when in fact they were the dullest and saddest. Susan rarely drank; at the most she would have a glass or two of red on her nights off, and she couldn’t remember the last time she got drunk. The painted smile always stayed in place.
If all that wasn’t bad enough, she also had to contend with the fact that Eric did less and less work by the day. She was his wife though, and she would stand by him regardless and work hard to make the place a success.
Eric’s increasing laziness had come as a total surprise, a shock even. He had worked really hard all his life before taking on the pub, and she admired him for it, loved him for it, but he seemed to regard the bar as his unofficial retirement home, and he was content to spend more time playing pool with his mates than working, or even just being with her.
Content. Now there was a word to conjure with. Her thoughts drifted back to herself: when was the last time she was happy, really happy? Susan couldn’t remember. She was content. Fifteen or maybe even ten years ago she would have despised herself for settling with content, settling for a job she loathed, settling for a passionless life. Content.
Susan edged herself away from Eric’s inert bulk and tentatively slid one hand into her pyjama bottoms and between her legs. It was pointless. She never felt aroused any more, that emotion was boxed up along with so many others. She hadn’t masturbated in years and she was dry, dried up. She had recently read an article in the paper about vaginal atrophy and it didn’t make for entertaining reading, certainly not at her age.
Ironically, her eyes moistened and a tear rolled down her cheek and onto the pillow. She could deny her emotions and smile her way through life but those emotions were still there, boxed up. As with all boxes, things can be put in and taken out again - if the box could be found and opened.
Even before they had moved into the pub, their sex life had not been in the best of health for years. Since then it had died and been buried, and only she had mourned it’s passing or tried to resurrect it. The years had passed in their cruel way and, little by little, she had eventually forgotten all about sex, forgotten where she had put that particular box. She had lost the drive and become.... content.
Once in a while she would get a cheeky wink from one of the regulars, when they were good and drunk, but nothing stirred in her, nothing where once there had been such a passion, an absolute storm of sexuality, there was nothing. At times in her youth she had even worried that maybe she wasn’t normal - god, but she had loved sex, loved the thrill than ran like white electric fire through her body when she was touched, when she was kissed, when her earlobe was bitten.
She sighed and wiped the tear and thoughts of the past away. She lived in the here and now, with a husband that had no interest in sex or romance, and that was that. He was a good man and they had a good life. They had no debts, no children to drain their savings and, much as she loathed the pub, she knew it wouldn’t last forever. Besides, wishing for anything else was just a waste of time and energy. Wishing for things to happen was for children and fairy stories. Susan closed her eyes and sighed again - a deep, long, sad sigh. She was fifty four, past it, old. Most people at fifty four had given up on sex anyway, so why was she tormenting herself about something that wasn’t even possible? Tucking her hands under the pillow, Susan curled into the foetal position and tried to block out Eric’s snoring. There were only a few hours left before she had to be up to clean the pub.
Chapter Two
Four funerals and a divorce? It was hardly the script for a blockbuster movie but at least he had got laid at the first two funerals. That was one of the benefits of your friends dying relatively young. The widow was usually fuckable and if she wasn’t there would be family or friends that were suitably grief stricken and needed consoling.
Harry glanced round the church, his feet tapping involuntarily to a tune in his head as they waited for Frank to stop singing about doing it His Way . If there was one song that should be banned at funerals it was My Way - Frank certainly had done it his way, but most of the people Harry had met in life did exactly what they were told and nothing more until the day they dropped dead. Harry had always tried to do it his way, sometimes successfully, more often than not leaving a trail of emotional and financial destruction in his wake, but at least he tried.
There were more than half a dozen women in the church he liked the look of