				Infidelity

			Part II:  Redemption

				By H. Jekyll

(MF, rom, slow/deliberate, oral) 

Copyright 2001 by H. Jekyll.  Permission is given to 
repost on any web site that does not charge a fee for 
access, as long as the author is prominently noted.

Please do not read this if you live in a place where 
it is illegal to read sexually explicit stories, or 
if you are under the legal age to read such stories.

Net writers post stories for feedback, not money, and 
I am no different from anyone else.  I dearly love 
comments, complaints, and conversation (including 
corrections of typos) at h_jekyll2000@yahoo.com.  

The H. Jekyll stories are archived at the Alt Sex 
Stories Text Repository:  
ftp://ftp.asstr.org/pub/Authors/h_jekyll/

--------------------------------- 

Reset the scene.  The air has leaked away.  The 
night isn't expectant;  the joke has been played.  
Two people stand apart and alone, batting idle 
thoughts into the dark.  Nothing of significance 
will come of this. 

She has made her decision to do the right thing, to 
live with that burden.  Now she can't stand the 
thought of reentering the crowd, nor can she stay on 
the deck with him.  There is a third option.  She 
turns toward the steps and walks down into the yard, 
to be alone.   

Everything is hard.  She thinks:   How will I get 
home tonight?

If this were a movie he would follow her, to confront 
her.  She would welcome that;  it would give her the 
chance to give in, having tried to be good.  
Nonsense.  She knows that she wouldn't, gets almost 
teary thinking:  I'll always do the right thing.  If 
she gets far enough away she may be able to let 
herself cry over doing the right thing.

What he does is follow her and take her hand from 
behind. 

"Don't go.  Please don't.  Stay with me for awhile."  
He is still speaking very softly, but urgently. 

"Please stay."

"I don't know," and she looks to the house.  Do the 
right thing.  She needs an excuse to repulse him.  
"What if someone had come outside just then?  We 
could have been caught."

Oh you idiot!  No!  That's not what you mean.  Tell 
him the truth.  Tell him you can't be with him ever.  

He counters:  "Then let's just walk in the yard and 
talk.  Just talk.  No kissing, okay?" 

He makes a wan smile, more a grimace than a grin.  
She gives up on leaving, and she leaves her hand in 
his.  Neither really knows what that means, but it is 
something. 

Of course she loses her words again, distracted by 
his hand.  He leads her across some stepping stones, 
past a few new bushes in mulched earth and a dogwood 
that is so bright it gleams in bits of reflected 
light.  They are holding hands.  She stumbles a 
little, and so has to catch onto his arm, an arm that 
is as warm as the rest of him, while she tries to 
hold her wrap tightly to her chest.  

Why are we still holding each other?

Anyone could tell her.

-----------------------------

Her behavior last fall weighs on her.  She didn't 
know then that she had hurt him, not exactly, not 
like that.  She wants to apologize, but how do you 
bring that up?  She certainly can't tell him what 
drove her.  There are some things one just doesn't 
say.  They are both so shy now that they may not say 
anything at all, but she tries because she can't 
stand the silence.

"I'm really sorry about ... back there.  I shouldn't 
have let things go so far.  I think I led you on.  
You must think I'm terrible."

He doesn't say anything, though it's his turn.  They 
are still holding hands but he isn't saying he 
doesn't think she's terrible.  She stops waiting, and 
goes on. 

"I don't know how it happened, and it frightened me.  
And about last fall ..." 

A deep breath.  The night is full of such breaths.  
He pauses in mid-step, eyes open wide in the dark, 
and finally says something, finishing for her:  

"You don't have to tell me.  I know I should have 
controlled myself more."

"No.  It wasn't you.  Oh Lord no.  Please believe me.  
I did try to avoid you.  I'm sorry about that too.  
But it wasn't your fault.  There were other things 
going on.  I really can't talk about them."

"That's okay.  You don't need to excuse me.  I'm sure 
I deserved it." 

"No!  No, you don't understand.  Listen.  Oh God!"

She finds herself looking desperately left and right, 
to the trees, the lights, the house, looking for the 
right words.  They aren't there, so she gives up and 
stares him directly in the face:  

"Look, the truth is I was attracted to you, and it 
scared me then, too.  Okay, I said it!"

To whom is she confessing? 

She can't face him and looks away right after she 
finishes, then waits to hear him respond, but he is 
silent again.  When she looks back to him he has the 
strangest expression.  What parts are amazement and 
delight, thoughtfulness and fear she can't tell at 
all.  He takes both of her hands, holds them firmly, 
and she is afraid of what he will do, but then he 
drops one and they start to walk all over again.  As 
they move through the dark he keeps turning toward 
her as though to express something he can't quite 
say. 

They avoid the center of the long yard, open grass 
lighted by floodlights, and hug the landscaped edges.  
Some tiny night bird flashes away, perhaps tired of 
watching them from an oak.  It must have seen the two 
people walk randomly, slowly, always to the side, 
away from the open yard, to the hidden areas.  There 
are footsteps, nothing else.  They look to the 
ground, occasionally to each other.  That cool, damp 
ground is heady and sweet.  Too cool.  She lets him 
put an arm around her to warm her ("Is this okay?") 
and as she nestles against him in their walk, she can 
feel the night reviving itself. 

---------------------------

Far out in the shaded part of the gardens, hidden by 
a magnolia from the house and the possibility of 
discovery, he turns to her.  He is very close, though 
touching only her hand. 

"May I kiss you again?"

"No.  We agreed:  'no kissing.' I don't think we ... 
"

She doesn't finish.  

Just as she started talking he had lifted his free 
hand to her cheek, not quickly, almost lazily, not 
quite touching it.  It is an odd movement.  She has 
a dreamy memory of the way her cat sometimes touches 
her face when she is at the computer and he wants her 
to get him food, reaching out very gently and very 
slowly, pads getting closer and closer to her cheek.  

She stops to look at his hand, hovering not an inch 
away.  It seems as though he is waiting to see her 
reaction, then his palm is at her cheek again and, 
yes, it is still warm.  She thinks:  he'll seduce me 
with temperature. 

What he uses to seduce her is the most unoriginal of 
lines:   "I'll stop anytime you ask me.  I won't do 
anything you don't want me to do." 

Her response will be that he should stop now, that 
she doesn't want to do *anything*.  

She doesn't answer.  

It's been scant minutes since their crisis;  can 
there be a second chance already?  How did it build 
so suddenly?  She draws in a breath to say the words 
that will end it finally.  They look at each other, 
half covered in shadows, empty of words in their 
shelter.  

It seems quieter than it really is.  There are 
distant music from the party, some car tires hissing 
on the streets, this or that other noise, but nothing 
makes any impact.  They are two breathing statues, 
and they stand that way until they both realize that 
her answer is "yes."

This time she doesn't stop him.  He moves his mouth 
over hers, opens her lips with his, and brushes them 
lightly.  Their lips caress one another, back and 
forth, first the outside parts, then that exquisitely 
soft flesh just inside the mouth.  When his tongue 
probes into her mouth she is blindsided by such an 
unexpected jolt of lust that at first she does 
nothing but breathe and feel him invade.  It is 
several seconds before she sucks his tongue in deeply 
and tastes him.  He sucks both tongues back into his 
mouth.  She knows that he could do anything with her 
that he wanted and she wouldn't object.  She has 
crossed over. 

---------------------------

They may have kissed forever before he moves his hand 
from her face down to her neck, then to her chest.  
It is another dreamscaped movement, as a feather 
pulled by gravity, until his palm comes to rest on 
her left nipple. 

At that she stiffens, especially in her shoulders, 
though she doesn't completely step away.  It is like 
a dance with them tonight.  Together, apart.  Where 
will it end? 

She speaks in an odd, low voice.  Anyone could tell 
something was different, not just from her tone but 
from her choice of words, the way she looks at the 
ground, and her shoulders.  The night birds could 
tell it.  It is as though she is shouting to the 
trees, not of a rejection of the touch, but something 
else. 

"You're barking up the wrong tree, there.  You won't 
find what you're looking for."

He knows what she means.  He leaves his hand on her, 
lifts the other to her chin and raises her face with 
exquisite care.  If she had resisted he wouldn't have 
raised it.  They gaze.  

"Won't I?  Won't I?  I've known you so long, I know 
what you have.  Believe me that you have what I want.  
I'm not sure how to convince you of it, such a 
beautiful woman."

He has an idea.

"Don't you ... yes, don't you have nipples that 
tickle when they're stroked?"

He brushes both nipples with just the tips of the 
fingers of both hands, and watches closely as takes 
an almost inaudible breath.  Her shoulders are still 
tight, but she's waiting.  

"And don't you have tender skin all around, so that 
you get chills if you're caressed like this?"

He moves his hands up above her nipples, then slides 
his fingertips down and around them, barely touching 
her on the outside of her thin blouse, then up across 
her nipples and again down and around.  Up, around, 
barely touching her, letting quivers follow his hands 
over and around her nipples.  She begins to pant 
quietly while he does this, and her eyes close almost 
completely.  Her shoulders finally release. 

She is a still life.  She is holding the ends of her 
wrap to the side, away from her front, and she stands 
silently except for those shallow breaths, looking 
down at his hands, leaving him to do what he will.  

He doesn't hesitate.  He unbuttons her blouse from 
the top button all the way down, and she lets him.  
Then he caresses her fully on her bare skin, through 
the opening in the blouse, again following that 
circular pattern, becoming familiar with her breasts, 
happy in her responsiveness, confident in his 
touching.  He pinches her excited nipples as his 
hands pass over them, until she seems in her own mind 
to be all swollen nipples and goose pimpled flesh, 
until she is all shivers and her eyes close.  She 
begins to sway. 

He pulls her to him and holds her, faces together, 
and starts kissing her again.  She pants into his 
mouth. 

"Take off your panties."

She is back in the present before his words 
disappear.  Her eyes go to the deck and the back 
door.  When she speaks she is breathless and her 
whisper squeaks:  

"We can't do that here!"

"Just your panties.  Please.  Give them to me."

She stares at him for five seconds, ten seconds.  It 
is time for a final decision, the one she's already 
made.  So she rucks up her skirt and grasps her 
panties to pull them down her thighs.  At her knees 
she reaches the tops of the boots she has worn 
against the weather and has to work them down. 

He takes the panties and shoves them into a pocket.  
Then he takes her with his left arm while he snakes 
his right hand under her dress and up the insides of 
her thighs to her pudendum.  While his hand is moving 
up she again tilts her head back, but instead of 
swaying she leans against him.  When he reaches her 
sex, where she is so wet and slippery that his 
fingers go right between her lips, she moans, almost 
silently because she has so little air. 

That's when she sees the back door open.  A figure, 
now three, are half out onto the deck. 

"Someone's there!"  She whispers, hardly getting the 
words out, wanting his hand but afraid of being 
caught.  He has already pushed two fingers up into 
her vagina as far as they will go and is massaging 
her with his thumb.  

He turns around to face the house but continues to 
hold her to him and to pleasure her.  Now she can't 
see the house.  She listens but doesn't hear 
anything, and it is hard to concentrate because he 
won't stop sexing her.  His hand never moves away.  
His thumb moves slowly up and down inside her lips, 
just barely grazing her clitoris going in both 
directions.  

What do I do?  She trusts him with her security and 
forces her face into his shoulder, working all the 
while to be quiet while her body surges.  

"They're gone," he whispers down to her finally, then 
he is moving his face over her hair, kissing her 
hair, her face, and she turns her face up to him, 
searching for his mouth, finding it, breathing hard.  

The Moody Blues were wrong.  You can't keep getting 
higher and higher.  There are limits, and what was 
held back breaks loose.  Her explosion is waiting 
impatiently.  She feels herself at the edge.  But 
then he stops.  He pulls his hand completely out of 
her and out from under her skirt. 

"Over here."  He has to half-pull her, to a wooden 
bench set further back from the open area.  

"Damn!  Wait here.  I'm going to get something to dry 
it with."

No!  He walks to the house, leaving her teetering.  
She has to hold the back of the bench with a hand to 
keep from swaying again.  Her other hand goes to her 
mound and holds it hard, to keep the feeling in.  She 
has a superstitious thought that it will spill away.  

She needn't worry.  He walks back out of the house 
carrying an entire roll of paper towels, strolls to 
her -- it seems to her that he is in no hurry -- and 
dries off the bench.  He helps her to sit, then to 
lie back along the slats.  The rest of the roll goes 
under her head.  Her feet are on the ground, but he 
lifts her right leg all the way to the back of the 
bench and hooks her heel over it.  He lifts her skirt 
to her waist.  It is utterly unromantic.  She is 
completely exposed, mortified because he looks 
straight down onto her spread vagina.  

She intends to let him do whatever he wants and to 
watch the house for him, but when he leans down and 
puts his open mouth on her she forgets to watch.  She 
has just one moment of panic, thinking:  Don't do 
that!  I didn't wash for you.  I didn't know.  

It is too late.

He sucks both labia deep into his mouth and chews 
them with exquisite softness, and she forgets 
everything.  His mouth crowds out everything else.  
The house is still there, still a source of danger, 
but she can manage only one or two glances, then 
thinks a little prayer:  Please don't let anyone come 
outside now.   

Does she realize the irony of the request, certain to 
pique her Lord?  Unmindful, she puts her fate in His 
and her lover's hands, again releasing herself to 
pleasure, and lets her head fall back.  Her eyes 
close completely.  She had started to shiver from her 
exposure to the air, and the contrast with the wet 
heat of his mouth is astounding.  His body heat was 
nothing compared to this.  He sucks on her, licks 
her, giving her more pleasure than she can endure.

Her orgasm begins with a vibration that spreads 
outward from her sex.  Suddenly she is crying out and 
then his hand is over her mouth to stifle her and she 
is crying into it.  

She has never done this in sex before, cried loudly.  
Afterward she will recall it as being shrill, like a 
banshee's cry, and won't believe him when he tells 
her there was no real danger of being heard.  She is 
loud enough.  

He pushes his hand harder on her mouth, still sucking 
and licking her, and she pulls the hand in with both 
of hers, getting the edge of it well into her mouth, 
screaming behind it but unaware until afterwards that 
she is biting it as well.  She can't help the 
crying, keeps coming, tastes his hand as part of her 
orgasm, comes again, still, and finally pushes his 
face away from her because she just can't breath 
anymore. 

It doesn't end quickly, at that.  She moans and makes 
keening sounds for what seems a long, long time.  
When she can finally pay attention to her 
surroundings she finds that her face is wet -- she 
really has cried -- and that he has changed hands, 
rubbing the first one against his leg and shaking it 
in the air.  She is dizzy, winded, languid. 

===============================

It is a terrible time for people to come outside and 
walk their way.  

God has honored her prayer, but just barely.  They 
are almost to the bench before she hears her lover's 
sharp whisper, and then she is horrified, legs still 
splayed open, vagina naked for the world to see, but 
he rises, slips her leg off the back of the bench and 
helps her sit up and smooth her skirt.  When the 
couple get to their hideaway he is telling her the 
derivation of the term "blue moon."  They can't see 
that under her shawl she is pulling her unbuttoned 
blouse together. 

"Evening folks.  Beautiful night, isn't it?"  Yes, 
they agree it is and they stop to chat.  

She is still trying to get final control of her 
breathing, can't think of much to say anyway, and 
believes that almost anything will give her away.  
The night is bright enough with the floodlights that 
junipers are blue-green in the light, while dark gray 
below, and this strikes her as a thing she could 
mention, if she could bring herself to speak.  Her 
body isn't completely done with her.  

She tries to look attentive, her arms crossed over 
her chest, leaning back away from him, looking at the 
couple while they talk, but really looking more 
closely at him.  What is he thinking?  What is he 
feeling? 

Will he be irritated at her emptiness with the other 
couple?  No.  When they finally leave, before they 
leave, when they have first begun to walk back toward 
the house, he pushes his left hand along the bench to 
her to touch her leg.  Three more steps, then she 
takes his hand in her right.  She brings it to her 
mouth and kisses it during the next few steps, then 
eases over to him, puts her head down on his 
shoulder, moves her left hand lightly to his chest so 
that her fingers can rest ever so lightly over his 
right nipple.  She can feel his breathing in both his 
shoulder and his chest.  Though she is starting to 
chill again, he is as warm to her as ever. 

"Oh darling, I thought they'd never go."

She stops.  "Darling"?  Will that scare him away?  
Worse, is she going to scare herself away? 

None of this is going to happen.  He says: 

"Oh Jesus!  'Blue moon.' What was I thinking?"

He turns to kiss her, and when he does she smells 
herself on his face and is aroused all over again. 

==============================

It is so good to be away from all those people.  

They had made their exit quickly.  Each had to get 
home, they'd said.  She had poured wine into two 
plastic cups while he washed his face, then they'd 
gone straight to the door.  They drove more or less 
toward her house but turned off into a hidden little 
parking lot.  There is a tiny grassy area with a tree 
and a picnic table that no one has ever been known to 
use. 

Here he half sits against the table-top while she 
leans into him and they talk.  He moves his hands all 
over her.  She surveys the night, nuzzling his neck, 
scratching her nose luxuriously on his whiskers, 
making soothing sounds over his poor hand.  How will 
he explain the bite to his wife?  She counts the 
tooth marks in dim, yellow light and kisses them one 
by one.  

She says:  "My poor baby."  She thinks:  My dearest.  
We don't know what he thinks.

The night is so different from every other night.  
Where is she going?  What is right and wrong?  Will 
she wander a sexual wilderness?  Will she be alone or 
will he lead her through it, her Moses?  No, not 
Moses.  He got me all the way to the promised land.  
She smiles at her wit.

She is still sexually high.  Or is it again?  She 
can't tell.  She thinks:  where is there a bed when 
you need one? 

She wants to pleasure him back, but he tells her that 
being almost caught once in a night is enough.  He 
can't mean it.  Every time she leans between his legs 
she feels his hard penis pressed into her.  Has he 
been hard all evening?  That is something else she 
can't tell. 

She decides to take action.  She reaches for his 
zipper and pulls it down all the way. 

"Wait.  Don't.  What if a cop came by?"

"Well I'm not going to strip you, darling.  Just keep 
an eye open for them -- if you can." 

She tries to pull his penis out through his underwear 
and open zipper, but there are difficulties, given 
how erect he is and that she's never done that 
before, and finally he has to unfasten his pants and 
belt himself and push everything down.  She grasps 
his prick and pulls it forward and back, masturbating 
him.  Even in the shadows she can tell that the head 
is glistening with a thin liquid coating.  The penis 
is darker than the rest of his skin and it is hot to 
the touch.  

It's his turn to pant.  She holds his prick still and 
tickles the underside and his balls, then masturbates 
him again.  She knows what she is going to do, 
something from her fantasies, something he will love.  
She leans down to take the head of the penis in her 
mouth.  It tastes meatier than she had expected.  The 
shiny fluid is faintly salty.  She licks it like a 
lollipop then sucks on it while she jacks him.  

It doesn't take very long at all.  His panting grows 
faster and deeper and then he makes quiet grunts that 
ignite her, puts his hands on her hair, and pushes 
his penis to her, pushing it a little further into 
her mouth.  He comes, and no one watches for cops. 

She had thought she was prepared.  She isn't.  

She would have been content if she'd only orgasmed 
earlier.  Having done that, it would have been 
enough to know the feel of the cock in her hand.  It 
caused her breathing to speed, little pants that 
didn't allow her to exhale, that grew because this 
was going to get dirty.  Having felt his sex, she 
reveled in the smell and taste.  That made her 
hotter, narrowed her focus, caused little quakes in 
her vagina.  

It certainly wasn't enough when he started seeping 
fluid.  By then she was kneeling on the ground, 
ignoring the pebble under her knee that would leave a 
perfectly circular bruise.  She was making a noise 
that would have sounded like "Ohhh" if her mouth 
weren't full.  She isn't prepared for him to come, 
because there's only one step up for her to take. 

She lets him spurt into her mouth and swallows and 
swallows, feeling the quiver that begins in her 
vagina, while she glories in her descent.  A wave of 
vertigo sweeps over her and then her vagina takes 
over completely.  Without being touched, she orgasms 
for the second time this evening.  

She felt it coming.  She isn't even surprised by it, 
but she is lost in her pleasure and his penis.  There 
are words in her mind, scarcely audible in the rush 
as she sucks and swallows and comes:  Oh my God.  I'm 
a slut.  Oh my God.  Oh dear God.

Then they are both finished and after really only a 
few seconds they float gracefully back to earth, to 
the night and the picnic table and the grass.  She 
holds his penis in her mouth as his breathing settles 
down -- as their breathing settles down -- and his 
penis starts to shrink.  She is astonished by these 
new things she has experienced.  No they can't be 
new, she thinks, but I never knew them.  She feels 
depraved, and happy.  

His hands still hold her head.  

She leans away and looks up at him from under her 
eyelids, bashful at what she has done.  She takes her 
cup and drinks the wine, all of it in one long drink. 

"I can't go home with your taste on me."

So he finishes his wine too, pulls her up to him, and 
holds her very firmly and very quietly.  Then he 
kisses her open mouthed.  They caress tongues, brush 
their cheeks to each other, move lips softly, softly 
over each other's.  He starts touching different 
parts of her body again. 

"Wait."

He pulls up his pants and fastens everything.  Then 
he pulls her back to him.  

"That's better."

==============================

The lights are on at her house. 

They had agreed not to kiss at her house, or to sit 
in the car together, so she gets out and walks 
directly to the door.  She hesitates before entering, 
though, smelling one last smell, some clover someone 
mowed.  It will be different inside. 

Yes, inside the house is exactly as she'd left it.  
Somehow she'd thought it would be changed.

Her husband is watching TV.  They chat a moment 
before she gives him a peck and says she will get 
ready for bed.  He makes a little comment about the 
alcohol on her breath.  He doesn't watch her ass and 
legs from behind as she climbs the stairs.  There's a 
game on. 

------------------------

There is a small spot of semen on her skirt.  She 
rinses it with water and drops the skirt in the 
laundry hamper, then she takes a long bubble bath.  
Just as she's getting in she has a dreadful thought:  
what if his wife finds her panties? 

The bath is long enough to make her red and wrinkled.  
When she has dried herself, she walks to the floor 
mirror and looks at her body.  She tickles her 
nipples, touches her pubic hair, investigates 
everything closely.  Finally she dresses and walks 
out into the bedroom.  Her husband is still 
downstairs.

She turns back the bed sheets and gets in on her 
side, sitting up and leaning back against the 
pillows.  She sits that way for several minutes.  The 
atmosphere of the house in bringing her back.  

Finally she sighs.  She might as well get it over 
with.  Fumbling around, she opens the drawer of the 
bedside stand and pulls out her old Bible.  She will 
have to do this sometime.

She doesn't read anything, though.  Not tonight, not 
her.  She stares at the wrinkled black cover for 
several minutes, then she puts it back away, sets the 
alarm clock, and turns out the reading light.  She 
will go to the early service tomorrow morning.  She 
snuggles in, pulls the covers to her neck, and closes 
her eyes. 
