The Last Call

The Last Call
Literary Erotica
by Lord Malinov

His sister’s words echoed like the cathedral bells on a holy day, drowning out all semblance of reason with the tolling of a life’s passing. Peter bit his fingernails, spitting out each torn shred as his fibrous claws tore under his ferocious despair.

“Eric,” Felicia had said, enunciating the syllables with an over pleased distinction. Peter knew she was relishing her role as gossip fatale. Felicia had always despised Theresa, disliking her at once on the day her younger brother first brought the girl home for dinner. Even after becoming her sister-in-law, Felicia couldn’t help but jab, stab and needle at every opportunity any weakness she could pinpoint in Peter’s pretty wife.

The news, “Eric,” marked Felicia’s final, grand achievement. Peter felt defeated at his sister’s wounding. She was right and had always been right, and he knew it. “Eric.” Peter approached the house. Her car, Theresa’s pale blue Ford, waited guiltily in the drive.

He sat for a moment before deciding to step out of his own automobile, uncertain. Although Felicia took unqualified pleasure in watching the news of his wife’s infidelity cut through the sinews of his love, her cruel stroke had also drained Peter of the rage he thought, perhaps, should be leading him forward at this point. Instead he found as he approached the front door of the shabby little brick Victorian, that he couldn’t bring himself to care. Sadness gripped him, but nothing more. He tried to imagine ringing the bell and the scene that might ensue. Peter walked around through the gate to the back of the house.

A tall hedge of azaleas ringed the patio, and Pete pushed his way into a narrow gap in the thick green leaves. A clutter of aging aluminum chairs had been scattered over the concrete slab. Peter moved closer, cautiously, moving with purpose toward the back door. He peeked inside. Theresa kissed the man he assumed must be Eric. Peter felt a burst of jealous rage, but the fire of his anger was doused almost at once by the sheer beauty he encountered. Theresa lifted her sweater over her hair, tousling her golden mane. She shook her head and the unkempt strands fell seductively past her cheeks, framing a coy smile. The straps of her beige satin bra adorned her pale shoulders; the swells of her breasts strained against the slightly frayed cloth.

The vision reminded Peter of a moment they once shared, the impact her simple beauty had on him, when first he watched this girl undress. As Eric kneaded her smoothly encased tits, Peter saw Theresa through her lover’s eyes, and knew she was lovelier than he remembered. Peter cowered by the half open door, peeking audaciously into the dark room, watching as his wife offered herself to the stranger’s hands.

He watched her stand and pull down her slacks. She wore flowered panties he had seen a hundred times before, yet watching her shy, almost timid motions, Peter discovered a beauty to Theresa he had long since ignored. He longed to kiss the supple fullness of her belly, the creamy white of her thighs, the downy golden softness of her neck as she lifted her hair, the valley between her hilled bosom. The panties descended awkwardly, and Peter held his breath.

He knew that heaven found design in Theresa’s sweet pussy and round bottom, a delectable epitome of feminine grace. As Eric smiled to discover the swell of lips nestled in the gleaming floss of her muff, Peter watched, remembering an afternoon in the park when his wife, a few years younger, had shocked him by revealing her naked puss in the brilliant sunlight of a warm, spring day. Peter found his arousal mounting as he watched Theresa kneel and begin to kiss the dark man, remembering the way she had wiggled her bare bottom to the breeze and dared him to take her then and there. Peter had always regretted he had let the chance slip, and wondered now if he would ever know that daring shard of bliss.

The stranger’s prick stood tall and hard and Theresa caressed it knowingly, hungrily, wildly, taking the strength of his rock in her sweet, pretty mouth. Peter felt the twang of envy, so different from the jealousy he thought he should be feeling, centering in his desire to feel Theresa’s loving touch, already abandoning the feeling he should command it. Peter burned with the flush of wanting, and the ache of having let her go.

The cock stood poised at the verge of Theresa’s succulent lips, and Peter watched, eyes gleaming, to see the plunge that would steal her away forever. She moaned deeply, a dark sound of ecstatic pleasure he yearned to hear close, but as soon found changed. Theresa’s kisses ceased and she raised her haunches high, offering Peter a final glimpse of the moist cleft nestled between her full bottom cheeks. Then Peter knew the moans had fallen, descending into sobs. He wanted at once to burst in and hold her, and knew at once his chance was gone.

“I’m sorry,” she cried, turning onto the floor. Eric looked at her, surprised and calm.

“It’s all right,” he said, not knowing what else to say.

“I shouldn’t be here,” she whimpered. “This isn’t what I want. I mean, you’re fabulous, and I would want you if things were different, but they aren’t. All I keep thinking about is the love I used to share with Peter, and that isn’t fair to you. I don’t want to fuck you because I wish I still had him.”

“I thought you were still . . . ” Eric’s lack of interest in the complexities of the woman’s situation were making him frown.

“I am,” Theresa said, her sobs turning to full fledged tears. Peter felt his heart tear, knowing he should embrace her, knowing he couldn’t. Not yet, anyway. “He’s just been so distant, and his family won’t get off my back. They’re cruel, and Peter won’t do anything to stop them from hating me.”

“Isn’t Felicia his sister?” Eric asked, glad to have found a point of conversation to make him care about the woman’s distress.

“She a bitch,” said Theresa with spite.

“Felicia’s not that bad,” said Eric. “She introduced us, didn’t she?” Theresa’s eyes opened wide. She started to speak, paused and then burst into tears. Peter backed away from the door, cautiously. Once through the hedge, he ran back to his car and sped away.

Peter watched out the front window of his house. The phone rang and he ignored the ringing. About ten minutes later, the pale blue Ford pulled into the drive. A red-eyed and diminished Theresa opened the door and stepped shyly inside. Peter took his wife in his arms fiercely, strongly and kissed her sad lips passionately. Theresa began to cry softly, and Peter kissed away her tears.

“Oh, God, Peter.”

“Hush,” he cooed, kissing her downy neck. His hands ran possessively over her body, taking stock of the gentle curves of flesh. “I adore you.” He held her tightly, wantingly, desperately.

“I love you, too, Peter.” The phone rang. Peter assured his wife with a touch and stepped over to pick up the receiver.

“Well, Peter?” said Felicia with a gloat.

“Don’t ever speak to me again, Felicia. You can go to hell. We’ve had enough of your cruelty. As long as you don’t show some respect for Theresa, for my wife and marriage, you are no sister of mine.” Felicia began to protest, but Peter interrupted with a stern “Goodbye.” He smacked the receiver down emphatically.

Theresa dashed over to kiss her husband. “I’m sorry,” he murmured and the young couple fell again, forever into each other.

About Lord Malinov

Lord Malinov, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet - author of Song of Songs, Journals of Lord Malinov, Erotic Romances and others ...
This entry was posted in books, erotica, fiction, literature, literotica, personal, short stories, writing and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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