Marge heard her husband’s tread on the stair. She closed her eyes tighter and rolled the blanket closer around her body. The creak of the top stair and brushing of the door announced his arrival. She listened to the sounds of his nightly preparation, shuffling out of his clothes, hacking his lungs clear and the rummage in the drawer for his entertainment.
The bedside lamp clicked on, the colour behind her lids changed, the bed lurched as he settled onto it and she felt the heat of his back inches away from hers. He grunted her name, she didn’t answer but listened as he ruffled through pages she imagined that were sticky from overuse. She felt the vibration of his movement through the mattress, it never took him long; chugging his hand up and down his cock until his body stiffened, he grunted and spurted his come over his fist and pyjama bottoms.
This was their sex life, had been for years, they didn’t talk about it, pretended to each other it didn’t happen and continued on in their stained sexless marriage. Except of course she did know about it. She saw the evidence of it on the sheets and his pyjamas when she did the weekly wash. She smelt the fetid heat of his lust almost nightly and found and threw away the magazines when they became too tattered and offensive to her to stay in her home. New ones replaced them and the non-courtship repeated itself.
The light clicked off and true to form her husband snored into the night. Marge lay there, opened her eyes and brushed the tear that bloomed on her cheek. She thought about her life; one disappointment after another.
She had been the one to watch at school, pretty and clever but not so much to be intimidating. Popular with the boys and leader of her own little gang of girls. Harry had courted her, it was inevitable, they were equals in the town’s youth’s social strata. He had the scooter, the chat and his own retinue of hangers on. They were made for each other except they weren’t really. What did they have in common? What dreams did they share? She’d wanted to go to secretarial college, get a nice office job, settle down with her fella and have a family. Steady, nothing too ambitious but better than her ma’s life in the canteen of the local factory.
But what happened, she let him into her knickers before they walked up the aisle and there you go, shotgun wedding and all thoughts of doing anything other than juggle baby bottles and nappies up in smoke. Then she found out he had no ambition, no lust for life except, fags, beer and a Thursday night at the dogs; and once the babies came she found out he had no lust for her either.
Kids grown and gone and she’s serving pap in the halfway house to a mixed bag of care in the community and old men on their parole. Not even as good as her mum. Silent tears salted her face as she thought of the straight jacket of her life. 50 years old and nothing to show for it, no-one to want her and no-one to care.
In the morning she cleared up the house and on a whim dropped her husband’s magazines into her bag. New ones, he’d only had these a day or so, he’d obviously had a win on the dogs. Once in work and on her fag break she took the porn to the loo with her and flicked through it. Women with dark eyes, pursed lips and red tipped hands holding breasts and cunts open. Glistening, arching and pouting out of the pages. She felt a flutter in her stomach. Here was one holding herself open and filling herself with fingers, another being bent over and fucked by some large cocked and muscle chested god of a man. Marge’s mouth watered, she bit down on her cigarette and slipped a hand between her legs as she sat there.
She’d forgotten herself, her need, her sex. She rubbed at her clit and quivered but overcome with shyness of herself she stopped, closed the mags, flushed her cigarette butt away with her piss and shit and went back to work.
He was there early, he always was. She wasn’t sure what he was doing there exactly, something in the admin office but his shifts meant he always had his dinner early. Alone. She always served him but today something in her shifted and she spoke to him as she collected his plate;
“Do you want to see what I’m reading?”
Too polite to say no to her he nodded, she smiled as she returned from the kitchen and slid the magazines over to him. She settled into a chair opposite him and watched as he flicked through them. He was what, 18 or 19? Younger than her youngest son. She watched his eyes widen and his tongue lick over his lips nervously.
“Do you like them?”
“Err yes” he answered carefully, closing the magazines and pushing them back to her, raising his eyes to hers and holding them for a moment, “Thank you”
And just like that a ritual began. She would bring him the magazines her husband enjoyed instead of her and he would look at them while she watched.
For his part, Robin liked the curious arrangement. Of course he liked looking at the porn, he was no innocent, he’d had girlfriends, played around but still 19 was young in the world of sex and self knowledge. He liked feeling his cock fill with blood as the older woman watched him. A strange authority figure that reeked of disappointment as much as she did of boiled cabbage, cheap fags, stale sweat and talcum powder.
And one day instead of taking her usual seat opposite him she sat on the table next to him as he flicked through the magazines.
“Would you like to touch me?”
She opened her legs, brown utility stockings, stubbly thighs and beige knickers. Granny pants he thought. Pubic hair escaped them and he could smell the staleness of her body. Robin stood slowly and reached his hand forward and up to her cunt. The fabric felt cheap and slippery as he rubbed his palm over her, he wondered idly about static electricity. He flicked a finger under the edge of the elastic and was rewarded with her groan and harsh whisper in his ear.
“I know you boys; you all want a piece of pussy well here you are, lets see what you can do with it.”
The pubic hair was matted, he could feel the crust in her knickers against his knuckles, christ did she ever wash? But wetness on his palm that chased all other thoughts away.
“Take your cock out, I want to see it.”
He obeyed as he shoved a finger into the seeping wound of Marge’s sexless marriage. His other hand closed round his cock and tried to time his strokes to her pokes.
Marge watched him, saw the colour rise in his cheeks and the cock swell in his hand. He was young it wouldn’t take long to see his cock spurt. She didn’t believe in the female orgasm, not for her, they only existed in the magazines spread out on the table, but she got a perverse pleasure from his embaressed fingering of her and his obvious shame at his fleshes response to her. A woman past her prime brought low and made ugly by misfortune and poverty of expectation. With a husband too selfish and too tight to heat more than a bathfull of water a week, her life felt as dirty and mouldered as she felt in her body. So different from those golden beauties in the magazines or from the nice girls that he no doubt met and courted in the hope they would allow him what she was giving him.
Fuck them all, the men the women, the beautiful and the ugly, the young and the old. What did she have? She had a 19 year old boy coming over his boxers as he fingered an old unwanted cunt. She smiled at him as he gasped over his orgasm, slapped his hand out of her pussy, stood up and walked away;
“You can keep the mags, just make sure you don’t leave a mess”