Juliet

The house seemed too big as she moved around it, the morning chores soaking up the empty hours, now that she was alone.  Left with an only child, Lucy had not returned to work, not yet.  Though occasionally the telephone would ring, and her old company would enquire as to her plans – the mock sympathy merely a gauze through which was filtered the true rationale of fresh recruitment needs – as of yet no decision had been made.

The time was not right.

The wounds still too raw.

Downstairs, her son giggled, some on screen antic of Spongebob wringing amusement from the boy who, strangely, seemed immune to the process of grief.  No tears were ever shed, no questions ever asked and, for all the world, Lucy envied him, for it seemed that, in his mind, Thomas had not been lost.

A fatal, tragic accident was how it was reported in the local media and, even, for the first few days at least, some national’s ran the story.  The policeman in the wrong place at the wrong time, attending an emergency call, a robbery in progress, Thomas unfortunate enough to be in the middle of the road just as the getaway car screeched out of control, slamming into him at fifty, carrying his body some eighty, ninety metres, all the while accelerating, the driver within nought but a passenger himself having suffered a mild stroke.  The impact with the brick wall did the trick, killing Thomas outright and, mercifully, the coroner’s report declared death to be instantaneous.

No suffering.

No prolonging of pain.

No monotonous months of misery.

At least not for the dead.

‘Mommy, I’m hungry.’

The cry from downstairs was not wholly unexpected.  By ten o’clock, usually, the boy would have been fed but, today, she was behind, a late awakening throwing her usual routine out of sync.

‘Coming, Josh.’

She walked the length of the landing, wiping away a single tear that eked from the corner of her eye, the sight of her late husband staring out at her from photographs on the staircase the straw that broke her, but she was determined that her boy not see her cry.

Not again.

Stemming the flow, denying herself the moment of grief that friends and therapists would surely have advised she needed, she entered the kitchen, Josh already seated, neck craned, eyes glued to the portable television on the work surface and, despite herself, she smiled, emotions in turmoil once more, this time awash with love so profound she felt sure it must be visible.

‘So, kipper, what’ll it be?  Sugar Puffs or Shreddies?’

 

Many times he had been there, unnoticed.  Ever watchful, his position behind the large hedge that ran lengthways along the edge of the garden perfect for his needs, for he  could see all he wished, but nobody could see him, not even curious neighbours, the height of the hedgerow prohibitive to prying, inquisitive eyes.  With one hand, he prised apart two branches of the bush, forming a perfect line of sight with the kitchen whilst, with the other hand, he masturbated vigorously, eliciting small grunts, forcing himself to slow down, not wishing to complete too soon.

It was the woman he watched, for the boy held no interest, the female form the only thing he delighted in, but it had been a long time since he had known the feel of flesh other than his own.  For weeks, now, he had watched her, initially without sexual gratification as part of the ritual.  He felt it was important to get to know somebody before indulging in sexual congress so, out of respect, he had held back, had merely observed.  Then came the time, that glorious day two weeks prior, when she had appeared in the morning in her bathrobe, and then he knew the time was right.  A deliberate act, clearly, and a provocative one, she was signalling to him that it was OK to take the relationship to the next level, so, dutifully, he had initiated masturbation as he stared at her through the kitchen window certain that, beneath the level of the sill, she was acting in kind and, together, gloriously, they climaxed as one, his seed spilling eagerly as she swept away, into the adjacent room, carried on an orgasmic wave so potent she felt it impossible to return for another six hours.

Oh, joyous day.

Now, he smiled, the masturbation waning, forcing his still stiffened member back into his trousers, even though he had not achieved completion, hoping that this would be the day when things would escalate further and incredibly, even as he formed the thought, she approached the window, seemed to gaze out, seemed to stare right at him.

‘Is today the day?’ he asked her with his mind and, joy upon joy, she nodded, mouthing words at him that he could not understand, though he knew they were playful, flirtatious suggestions, and doubtless some were filthy too.  Descriptions of what she wanted him to do to her, and what she was going to do to him and, as he imagined the scenarios she was playing out for him, it took every ounce of his will to simply not whip out his cock and finish himself there and then.

But no.

That is not what she would want.

These things were meant for sharing.

And share with her, he would.

 

She placed the bowl of Sugar Puffs on the kitchen table, her son merely grunting at her to begin with, the hands on hips pose she adopted forcing a grudging ‘thank you’ from the youngster, apparently annoyed at having his attention diverted from the TV screen even for a second.

‘Keep it up, sunshine, and that thing goes into the loft,’ she said, knowing it was an empty threat even as she spoke the words.  Sometimes, when days were especially bad, it seemed it was only the voices from the idiot lantern that kept her sane, gave her something other than her own internal thought processes to focus on. 

Lucy turned from her son, hands still on hips, unsure as to her next move, eyeing the washing machine suspiciously.  Did its silence mean the cycle was complete, or was it merely pausing between sequences?  Pacing forwards, she spied the small red light blinking at her, indicating the machine’s job was done and, sighing, she bent at the waist, yanking the door open, dragging the damp clothing out into the laundry basket.

‘Won’t be long, Josh.  Mommy’s just hanging the washing out,’ she called as she made for the back door, unsurprised when no response was forthcoming.

‘Ignorant little sod,’ she thought, as she struggled with the handle.

 

Five strides, that was all it took from the moment he emerged from his hiding place until he reached the back door, as he knew that it would.  He had practiced it many, many times.  As he moved, he slid the black balaclava into position over his face. 

The door handle rattled as, inside, she attempted to open the door whilst holding a full basket of washing.  Momentarily, he thought of assisting her, but resisted.   He needed the benefit of momentum as an ally.

Now, the door came free of the jamb, swinging inwards as she tugged at it and, emerging, with her back to him, swivelling at the waist to manoeuvre the basket through the doorway at the same time as herself, she had no idea he was there, right up to the moment he slammed a hand against her face and, simultaneously, clamped his other hand around her throat.

‘Hi honey, I’m home,’ he growled at her through his mask and, for her part, she attempted to scream, pushing against him with her body pleasingly, but his motion and his own body weight were both far superior, so she was propelled back the way she had come, into the kitchen.  Her eyes bulged madly in their sockets, and he rammed her hard against the far wall, forcing spit from her lips, which made his grip slip slightly, and she took her chance, attempting to bite down on the fleshy part of his thumb, but he was too quick for her, yanking away his hand, slamming it back with more force than was necessary, a warning that she’d best behave.  Gaining control of the situation, the attacker surveyed the scene within the room, noted the small boy still seated at the kitchen table, choosing to ignore him, pleased by his presence even, knowing that no mother would risk harm befalling their offspring, the child added leverage for her to perform and yield, should it become necessary.   Quickly, he released her throat and grabbed at her arm, indicating the direction he wanted her to move, relieved when she chose to comply.  He forced her towards the kitchen table, spinning her as they went, so that her back was to him, yanking at her jeans awkwardly, eager to claim what resided within as swiftly as possible, before any unwanted interruptions ruined his plans and forced a potential escalation of the situation.  She seemed to understand and, though reluctant, it was apparent she had appraised her circumstance well, and knew that she had no option but to do as he wished, her own son the psychological weapon inadvertently being used against her, so she assisted him, prising the top button open, tugging at the zipper, allowing him to bend her forward, over the table, not resisting as he tugged at the denim trousers, pulling them down savagely, not even bothering to lower the knickers, simply tearing them aside, ripping the fabric clear.  He lifted his hand to his face, and spat into his palm, using the saliva to grease up his swollen cock as best he could then, with loveless thrusts, he found his way into her, the sensations almost overwhelming him, far better than he had even imagined, her hips pushing back against him even as he defiled her and then, was it just his imagination?  Could it be?  Could it really be?  Yes, then he knew it was no mistake, for her movements began to synchronise with his own, she rocking back and forth where she stood in sympathy with his own urgent thrustings, so that he knew that it was truly love that he was feeling, that they both felt, the thought almost too much, his balls tightening as the moment of release approached and, as it did, so he found his hands sliding up her body, pausing briefly at the breasts before reaching her throat and, still grinding into her, he began to squeeze, hard, the grip tightening savagely in his fervour, so that her body convulsed against him delightfully.  She pushed back, clearly in ecstasy, so he squeezed some more, intensifying his hold on her neck, trying his best to time it just right then, just when he thought the pleasure would never end, she found her voice, croaked out a single word.

‘Juliet.’

Instantly, he released his grip and, delicately, stepped back, pulling his cock free, turning her over, drawing her towards him, and she took him in her arms gratefully, tears spilling from her eyes, though these were tears formed through nought but love, the violence of the past few minutes already over and, tenderly, they kissed, deep, prolonged, each needing to feel the sensation of the others’ skin next to their own.

‘Sorry,’ she said.  ‘I lost my nerve.’

‘Don’t worry about it.  It’s what the safe word is for.’

‘You were fantastic,’ she assured him.

‘You weren’t too bad yourself,’ he replied.

Standing, they turned to the boy, who still sat at the table, bowl of Sugar Puffs before him.

‘Daddy wasn’t hurting Mommy,’ said Lucy.  ‘It’s just a game grown-ups play.  No need to be scared.’

‘But don’t forget,’ the man said sternly, ‘You mustn’t tell anyone, else Mommy will get in big trouble.  And you wouldn’t want that, would you?  It would be your fault, remember.’

The boy nodded, and spooned another mouthful of breakfast cereal.

Locking the back door, Lucy headed upstairs, glancing just once at the photos on the stairs. 

The photos of Thomas.

The man in the kitchen, with their son.