In every wardrobe hides an item of clothing that magically confers a gift on its owner: the exquisitely cut suit in which you are a warrior; a pair of heels that reconstruct your walk into a look-but-don’t-touch strut (with matching attitude); the softest mohair jumper whose feel on bare skin is a soothing balm that warms you both inside and out. These can transform your appearance and behaviour and so should be treated with circumspection and respect, for they can lead to unsettling… adventures.
My adventure took place last summer. I feel it’s important to point out that, when it took place, I was not seeking a distraction or an escape. No, I am not that married woman. I was not frustrated or trapped. I like to fuck, so too does Dan, my husband, and we happily fuck each other. After eleven years together we play our bodies with a comfortable fluency. He knows that if I wear knickers to bed, it’s because I enjoy the slightly dirty thrill of feeling them being slowly pulled down. I know that he loves the view from behind. We have two boys, both good sleepers, and so our bed is ours.
Five days into our week at a Dutch holiday village and all was well. We spent our time in wholesome pursuits: lazy bike rides through the orderly forest; kayaking; frisbee by the lake; small lusty beers with lunch and long, long hours in the splash park. I’d prepared for this unavoidable activity by buying myself a new swimsuit. One which, due to its deeply dipping neckline and high lycra content, combined functionality with a latent Bond girl fantasy. This work of sartorial art managed to both elevate and compress my breasts into an embonpoint that Nell Gwynn would have congratulated. But, more crucially, it was able to withstand the buffeting of numerous descents down a water slide.
I felt good in that swimsuit. As we followed the boys around the pool, I knew Dan’s eyes were drawn to the clean lines of the fabric as they swooped over the swell of a hip, the dip of a waist. Climbing the steps ahead of him I’d deliberately run my index fingers under the material, releasing it from the gentle meeting between bottom and thigh, then look over my shoulder to catch his expression and grin. As we slid through tubes and tunnels, a tangle of slippery, water-soaked limbs, he would, when he thought no one could see, place his hand at the base of my arse, that exact spot where my cheeks are at their fullest and reaching through, rub my cunt, once, twice. No more than that.
Two hours of water play made for an evening of feverish anticipation until finally, the boys in bed, he laid me on our bed, instructed me to spread my legs and fell upon my cunt with a furious hunger, teasing the soft pink flesh around my clitoris with tiny exact licks, resisting my strategic wiggles to position his tongue exactly over the spot by gripping my arse with unyielding hands. Then, as my moans grew more insistent, long leisurely strokes down the folds of my labia, down one side then up the other and again and again, still avoiding the quick of me, until finally, at a moment of his choosing he flipped my legs over and pulled me on to my knees, using his to push them apart.
‘Hold yourself open,’ he said. ‘Wider than that, I want to see it all.’
I hid my face in the pillow as, with slick fingers I gently opened my cunt; unfolded, exposed, soaking, aching and all for him. I could hear him breathing, sense the smile as his mouth met my flesh, then gently, eventually, took my clit into his mouth and tongued it over and over again, hungrily eating my sex as I mewed into the pillow, drenching his face.
Yes, all was very well between us.
And, on reflection, I think that was partly to blame for what followed. I was feeling replete. My persona was not solely mother.
I felt desired.
More so as the week progressed and the nights spent with Dan intensified. My walk became a lazy saunter, notably so during our daily trip to the water park. I was past the stage of having to rush after my children for fear of accidents. Curves amplified thanks to swimsuit technology, I strolled casually, perhaps a little ostentatiously, yet hardly conscious of the exaggerated movements of my hips and shoulders. My head in carnal clouds, my thoughts held at simmering point, I gazed languidly over the wet naked skin all around me.
On the last day I took the boys for their final swim while Dan loaded up the car and went through the holiday ritual of packing the flight details; then unpacking them to ensure they were really there. For the last time, I slipped off my dress and pulled my beloved swimsuit over my body. After a week of performing this simple action every day, I was now classically conditioned to respond; nipples hardened and a tiny spark of warmth ignited between my thighs. The boys knew where they were going and so I let them loose, content to follow for a while before arriving at our usual spot, a shady, discrete table, where I could sit and wile away the last two hours of our agreeable family break.
I noticed him initially as I glanced up from my book to perform an obligatory scan of the pool. Walking with a group of friends, probably in their early twenties; a collection of careless tans, tattoos and strong shoulders. It was his hair that drew my eyes to him specifically; white-blond – silvery now it was wet – shaved around the sides and longer on top with obligatory stubble to finish off this look of Viking splendour. Nordic runes traced the lines of his shorn skull though, judging by the fellow holidaymakers I’d met so far, he was probably Dutch or German. But in my languorous, indulgent fantasy, he was most definitely from Scandinavian warrior stock.
He looks vital, I thought, passing him again on the way to grab money for snacks from my locker. He looks absolutely necessary, indispensable and fatal. Returning to the table I was hijacked by my youngest, grabbing my hand and pulling me towards his favourite slide which, incredibly, had no queue.
‘Don’t run,’ I called pointlessly as, satisfied he’d snared me, he skipped ahead and now stood at the top of the slide, ready to throw himself down the dark tube. But now, in between us, stood the Viking and his friends. Motioning to my son that I’d find him at the bottom I took a step back. Catching the movement, the Viking glanced at me then at the swiftly departing form of my son.
‘You want to go next?’ he said in blissfully accented English.
‘No, no he’s fine but thank you.’ I was surprised to find myself flushing as I spoke.
Aware that now I was the one under scrutiny, I gazed back, unblinking, into his face. My eyes dropped then, down to his mouth. Full lips, the bottom lip slightly more so and both rendered darker red by an afternoon spent in wet shorts. A mouth you’d want to bruise with your own. I forced my eyes back up to meet his and watched as they meandered up and over the sweeps and swerves of my body, to my face once more. For the longest moment we simply stared at each either. Moving aside he allowed his friends ahead of him and with whoops and guttural cries they disappeared into the darkness with fading echoes.
Left alone, I caught an amused smirk curling his mouth. Irritated, I pointedly looked past him, trying to make out the small shape of my boy in the water below. I didn’t see the Viking move but he was suddenly closer and no longer smiling. He licked his thumb, put himself in my space, in his shadow, cupped my face in his hands and gently wiped away a remnant of last night’s eyeliner. Then he turned and I lost him to his friends, the water, the noise and… God.
Now? Now I wanted to fuck him.
I took that treacherous thought straight into the showers, twisted the valve as far to the blue as possible and hoped the subsequent freezing torrent would blast it away. It didn’t. Instead, the heat within me beat a retreat downwards, licking at that spark between my thighs until, defeated, I wrapped myself in my towel and went to find my charges.
The boys were less than happy at being dragged unceremoniously away from the flumes and so, to assuage the guilt, I released them into the adjoining village shop to spend my remaining euros on treats for the journey home.
‘Go straight back to the cottage when you’re done,’ I said, ‘I just want to have one more look at the lake.’ I walked briskly through the trees and on to the sandy pathway that twisted snake-like to the closest inlet. Kicking off my sandals I sank to the ground, pushing my toes through the cool sand. The lake was surprisingly still and calm. The complete opposite of how I felt. Lying back, I closed my eyes and attempted to settle my mind.
You’re being ridiculous, I told myself sternly, trying hard to listen to the birdsong.
You are not a hormone-fuelled seventeen year-old. You are a woman and completely in control of your desires.
At the word desire, my hand slid down between my legs.
But I had no choice
So I delivered my pièce de resistance:
You are risking everything.
And I waited for my body to stop aching.
Behind me the soft squeal of protesting breaks as a bike skidded onto the sand. I opened my eyes, sat up but didn’t turn around, I didn’t need to. Instead I looked into the slate blue water and waited for the inevitable Viking invasion. As he crouched beside me his elbow brushed mine and I hugged my knees tighter, armadillo like, protecting (deceiving?) myself. His fingers brushed against my back before walking purposefully up my spine. At the nape of my neck, he paused before taking a damp curl and tugging gently. The gentlest arch of my back was all the acquiescence he needed to capture a more substantial handful, pull a little harder and meet my open mouth with his own.
There was no time for delicacy; our kisses quickly grew greedy and demanding. I turned towards him and slid onto into his lap. His arms enveloped me and, happy to be hidden, I bit his shoulder to show my gratitude. From this position, legs straddling his, I could feel his cock hardening under his jeans. I knew that if he slipped his hand down and slid his fingers under the still damp, now wet, crotch of my swimsuit, what a soaking welcome he’d receive. But for the moment his hands were busy, pulling down the straps of my dress. It fell in cottony folds to my waist, showcasing bullet hard nipples desperate to escape the strictures of my costume. The Viking was equally desperate in his heated attempts to release them. A heated yank of the my swimsuit’s straps proved fruitless, as they clung tenaciously to my arms, pressing my breasts higher, if that were possible, and yet they remained remarkably difficult to reveal. Reaching under my dress he discovered a similarly restrictive situation: no knickers to pull down; instead my costume had morphed into a nylon-lycra-blended chastity belt
As he tried, with growing frustration, to peel my resisting costume off me, I swallowed a giggle. I understood with a jolt that, really, I didn’t want him to take it off. Wearing it I felt like an X-Rated Wonder Woman. Without it I’d simply be a naked woman in the wrong place fucking the wrong man. Shocked into action by this epiphany, I disentangled myself from my ridiculously fine – but now rather confused – Viking warrior, and made for home.
I found my children already in the car: seat belts on, tablets fired up and oblivious to all. Breezing past them into the house, I pulled Dan away from the kitchen counter he was tidying and into our bedroom. He had me out of that costume and on all fours within seconds, claiming all my wetness for himself.
The details of my adventure are a secret kept between my swimming costume and me. I still adore it for both swaying and saving me. However, it is confined to the house. For now.
Katie Kelly has been a frequent contributor to this magazine. Recently two of her short stories were published in Desire: 100 of Literature’s Sexiest Stories, edited by Mariella Frostrup and the Erotic Review.