AULD LANG SYNE

By E. Z. Riter

***

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

And never brought to min'?

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

And days o' lang syne?

For auld lang syne, my dear,

For auld lang syne,

We'll take a cup o' kindness yet,

For auld lang syne."

Song by Bobbie Burns, national poet of Scotland.

Auld lang syne literally means "old long ago" but might better be translated as "times gone by."

***

1993 was a sad, bad year. The tattered and torn fabric of my marriage to Barbara came apart like a sail in a hurricane. It wasn't the sex - that part was still great. It was the lack of love-the feeling of being one-half of a complete being, of belonging to each other. By Christmas, the marriage was in its death throes with only inertia and memories keeping us together. Fortunately, Beth, our elder daughter, spent Christmas with her new husband's family, and Ginny, our younger one, went skiing with her college gang.

Barbara and I planned to attend our dance club's annual New Year's Eve dance as we had for sixteen years. We liked to dance and socialize with our friends. At least, we still had that in common. That and the kids and our law profession, although we practiced at different firms.

Barbara was a stunning woman who appealed to me from the first time I saw her. Tall at five eight, her legs were long, even for her height, and muscular, and her ass high and hard, all maintained by hours of weight-training, running, and the Stairmaster, for she was a fitness addict. She was short-waisted and her breasts were perfect C-cups, thanks to an expensive plastic surgeon. Her hair, originally black and kept that way at the beauty salon, fell down her back when we met and now was worn in a shorter cut to frame her face but not reach her shoulders.

On New Year's Eve, as with many others before it, I finished dressing first and sat down in my chair in the bedroom to talk with her and watch her dress after her bath. This time, I was sadly bemused by the dichotomy tearing at me. I wanted her sexually and the inertia impeded a spilt, but a large part of me knew our marriage was headed for the divorce court. When she walked naked from the bathroom, her hard, appraising stare quickly changed to a cocked eyebrow and semi-smirk. She posed for me as she slipped on black thong panties to cover her hairless crotch. One day years ago, she'd announced she preferred her pubis to be bald and had worn it that way ever since.

Panties in place, she sat on the edge of the bed to put on her stockings. She didn't like pantyhose, although she sometimes wore them to work. She preferred a garter belt and hose, or thigh-high stockings that stayed in place. She lovingly rolled sheer black, thigh high stockings up her legs, almost caressing herself with her touch. She slipped on her open-toed pumps with the four-inch stiletto heels and fastened their straps around her ankles.

She stood, walked to the full-length mirror, and turned on tip-toes to see herself. I watched, too-watched her ass to be specific. I looked up to see her smiling at me in the mirror.

"Like what you see, Rick?" she asked in a sultry voice.

"I do. I always have."

"I like you, too," she replied. "You turn me on." She opened a dresser drawer, removed a garment, walked to me, and turned her back. As she turned, her hand brushed the fly of my trousers. "Please fasten this for me," she said.

"You're wearing a corset?" I asked.

"It makes my dress fit better."

The corset was black lace and fastened in back with hooks and eyelets. As I fastened it for her, her perfume wafted up to me and my fingertips tingled from the heat of her skin. She walked back to the mirror to admire herself. The effect of the corset was eye-catching. It lifted and emphasized her breasts, raising and rounding them, and narrowed her waist, not that either her breasts or her waist needed the enhancement. She stepped into her walk-in closet and returned wearing her evening gown, a strapless, tight, slinky number that fell to her ankles and had a slit up her right leg to allow her to dance.

"Zip me," she said as she turned her back to me again. I fumbled only a bit with the zipper. She then stepped away from me and slowly twirled. "How do I look?"

"Stunning."

She kissed me hungrily. "So do you. Ready to go?" she asked.

*

The dance club always held the party at the Hilton and many of us rented rooms for the night so we wouldn't have to drive home in an alcoholic haze. We arrived at nine. I checked into the hotel while Barbara went directly to the ballroom. When I entered the ballroom, I looked for her and saw her on the dance floor with Tim Hutchins. I stopped several times to visit with friends as I made my way to the bar.

Barbara and Tim left the dance floor and I joined them at the table we were sharing with them and two other couples, Larry and Patty Smith and Mike and Sally Johnson. Marla, Tim's wife, joined us. We passed small talk until the orchestra struck up another number. Larry asked Barbara to dance and I danced with Patty.

Barbara and I only danced together twice that evening. While I danced about half the time, Barbara never left the dance floor. She danced with many men, but most often with Tim. They looked like lovers. I danced with Patty and Sally, but I spent most of the time with Marla. Being with Marla wasn't a bad thing. She was pretty and sexy, with teasing eyes and a lush, feminine softness that contrasted nicely to Barbara's chiseled form. She danced close to me with her bountiful breasts on my chest and her crotch against mine.

I had only one drink that night, foregoing my usual multiple bourbon and water for just plain water and a few soft drinks. Being stone-cold sober and in a detached and analytical mood changed my perspective and my perceptions. As I watched the partially alcohol-induced merriment of the crowd of middle-aged couples, I could see those among them who were still in love, those who were not in love but satisfied with each other, and those like Barbara and me-hanging on to marriage for some reason or the other.

I was dancing with Marla about eleven thirty when I saw Barbara and Tim sneak off the dance floor and go toward the elevators.

"What's wrong?" Marla asked, raising her head to look at me.

"Barbara and Tim just left together," I said.

"Oh," she said and she snuggled closer against me.

"Doesn't that bother you?" I asked.

"No. Does it bother you?"

It bothered the hell out of me, but I didn't reply to her. A cold, dead feeling settled in me and I shivered.

"I thought you knew about them," Marla said.

"I didn't know," I said. That wasn't a lie. I thought Barbara was cheating on me, but I didn't know.

"They've been lovers since Labor Day," Marla said with no more emotion than if she were relating the weather report.

"And you don't care if Tim and Barbara have an affair?" I asked.

"Why would I?"

"He's your husband."

"Sex isn't love. He always comes home to me, and I always go home to him."

"You've had affairs?"

"I've had sex with other men, but I don't think of them as affairs." Her arms slid around my waist to hold me tightly against her. "I've never had the one guy I've always wanted. That's you, Rick. I want you to fuck me and I want it tonight," she said.

Rumors abound in any social circle. In ours, Tim and Marla were reputed to be wife-swappers, a rumor Marla just confirmed. The rumors included the Smiths and Johnsons in that group. That would explain why all three wives seemed to come on to me all night.

Since my wife was enjoying her husband, I saw no need to deprive myself of her. "I've wanted you, too," I replied.

Her giggle seemed phony. "I know," she replied. "I've felt your cock on my belly and seen the way you look at me."

"Let's go upstairs," I said.

"I'd love to," she replied.

She took my hand to lead me toward the elevators. As we slipped through the crowd, I watched the other couples. Most were lost in themselves and their mates. Some were dancing in a friendly way. A few watched us go, and, of those few, most were rumored to have open marriages. I wondered if tonight was planned by Barbara, Tim, and Marla, or by a larger group, and if my staged seduction was an introduction to a different lifestyle.

Marla was obviously aroused as she held tightly to my hand and pulled me into the elevator after her. The elevator doors closed with a clank that sounded like a jail-cell door.

"Do you want to go to your room or join them in our room?" Marla asked. She adroitly unzipped my tuxedo trousers and retrieved my cock, which immediately hardened as her fingers wrapped around it. "Barbara wasn't lying."

"About what?" I asked.

"She said you had a nice cock, and she said you knew how to use it." She stroked it back and forth and we kissed until the elevator doors opened. "So, which room?" she asked.

"Your room," I said.

Holding my cock with one hand, Marla guided me to the door to their room, which was five doors down from my own. She slipped the electronic key in the lock, whispered, "Be quiet," and stealthily opened the door.

Barbara and Tim were on the king-size bed. Naked except for her stockings and heels, she faced the headboard with her arms locked to brace her and her knees spread widely. Tim was between her legs, holding her hips with his cock in her ass. They looked like a scene from a porno flick and I wondered if they fell into that position naturally or had posed it for my benefit.

"God, I love you back there," she moaned.

"You love having me in any of your holes, don't you, slut?" Tim said.

"Any of them, anytime."

If the plan was to get my agreement to join the swap-club, it failed. The instant I saw Barbara and Tim together, any marital feeling I had for her was severed like a head under the guillotine. The emotion was so real I saw the blade drop and I jerked in response. Barbara's body and her wanton face and Tim's face and his cock going in her nether hole burned into my mind. I knew even then I would always be able to close my eyes and let that sight pop into view. What I didn't know was if an emotional emptiness would drain me again each time the memory returned.

"Aren't they beautiful together?" Marla whispered as she slipped my tux jacket over my shoulders, tossed it aside, and started undressing me.

"Harder, Tim. Ream me out because... I'm... so... close."

"Unzip me," Marla whispered and turned her back to me. I unzipped her little black cocktail dress, and unhooked her strapless bra.

Barbara emitted her hard laugh as she shook in orgasm. Marla shimmied and her dress and bra fell to the floor. I hooked my thumbs in the waistband of her pantyhose and tugged them down her legs as Tim climaxed and collapsed, flattening Barbara against the bed with his cock still in her.

"Come on," Marla said with a giggle. She dragged me to the bed where she lay down by my wife. "No foreplay. Just stick it in me."

I crawled between her legs and easily slid into her dripping pussy. Her hairy bush felt strange against me. Her breasts, larger than Barbara's and natural, felt strange against my chest. I was slowly fucking her when Barbara sighed and turned her head toward us to watch through her post-orgasmic haze. I, too, watched, and my mind recorded every nuance as I fucked the sloppy and well-used cunt of my friend's wife. I wondered how many men had been there before me, and how many men my wife had used for her pleasure. Tim rolled off Barbara to lie on her far side and stroked her ass absent-mindedly as he watched Marla and me.

Marla moaned and whimpered and fucked me back until a hard orgasm contorted her face and wracked her body, leaving her inert and gasping. "That was beautiful, baby," Tim said as he stroked her face.

I hadn't climaxed, but ejaculation didn't seem appropriate. When I pulled out of Marla and stepped off the bed, Tim took my place between his wife's legs. Barbara rolled on her back and her eyes questioned if I'd join her.

I crawled between Barbara's legs. She opened for me, took my cock in her hand, and guided it toward her cunt, but I stopped and her eyes searched my face.

"Did you enjoy Marla?" she asked hopefully.

"Yes. Did you enjoy Tim?"

"Yes," she replied.

"Marla told me you've been fucking him since Labor Day. That surprised me. I thought you were having an affair before that."

"Why didn't you say something?" she asked.

"I don't know. Maybe I was afraid of your answer."

"I love you, Rick. I want to spend my life with you, but I love sex, too. I have had affairs before Tim."

"How many men have you had?"

"Oh, I've lost track. How many women have you had?"

"None except you."

"Seriously?" she asked incredulously.

"Very seriously," I replied.

"I'm surprised. You're such a virile and sexy man, and you do love to fuck."

"I love fucking you and I have been faithful."

"I like fucking and fucking around. I was hoping you did, too." I didn't reply. "Tim and Marla are swingers. I want us to join their club. Please, Rick."

"I don't want that," I said.

"Why not? It's a lot of fun." When I didn't reply, she said, "Be honest. You've wanted to fuck Marla and now you have. Think of all the other women you'll get to have."

"I don't want that," I repeated more emphatically.

"I want it, and I want an open marriage. I want to fuck who I want when I want." She pulled my face down to hers and kissed me hotly. "I want to be your wife, Rick, but I won't be faithful."

"Then I want a divorce," I replied. "I'll draw and file the papers."

She looked crushed. "Please don't do that. We have a good life together." Her hands were busy stroking me. "Let's stay together and open the marriage. You enjoy sex so much and I know you'd enjoy the variety."

The situation was ludicrous-utterly farcical like a terrible made-for-TV movie. I felt like an idiot as I discussed with my wife either opening or dissolving our marriage while she held my cock and our lovers watched.

"Please, Rick," she pleaded.

"I can't do that. If you have to play around, we need to divorce."

"Are you sure?" she asked.

"Completely sure."

She bubbled with rage. "All right. Be that way. I don't want anything out of the marriage except cash."

"Cash it'll be."

"Get off me," she demanded, but I didn't. She raised her hands to push me away. I grabbed her wrists and we struggled until her wrists were pinned over her head with her legs held open and trapped by my forearms. My cock had found her cunt and wormed in to bury the crown.

"Get off me, you limp-dicked bastard," Barbara hissed.

Despite her comments, I saw the signs she wanted me to fuck her and she wanted it rough-a long, hard fucking that rips orgasms from her. I pushed and buried my cock in her. I pinched her tit, squeezing and twisting her nipple until it hurt.

"Leave her alone, Rick," Tim said in what he probably considered a dominating tone.

I turned my head to glare at him. "Touch me, Timmy boy, and I'll tear off your cock and shove it up your ass," I said.

He reddened, trembled, and looked away. Marla smirked happily and looked at me with big, needy eyes.

"Want me to call the police?" Tim tentatively asked Barbara.

"No, and stay out of it," she replied curtly. "Let him masturbate using me if he wants."

Barbara wanted to stay cool and not respond to me, but she couldn't. I knew her body and what turns her on. I knew what every little twitch, every minuscule movement of a facial muscle, meant. I knew how much she could take before she lost it.

"Tim called you a slut when he was fucking your ass. He was right. You're a slut, a worthless cunt good for nothing but fucking."

"Asshole. Fucking asshole," she said through gritted teeth, but her pussy ground against me.

"Nothing but an over-educated piece of white-trash pussy-meat."

I squeezed her nipple until she squirmed and said, "Let go of me." I released that nipple and seized the other.

"Have you been charging all the guys you fuck, slut?"

"You're the only bastard who gives me money. If you were good in bed, I'd fuck you for free like I do the others."

"You should have been charging them. You could buy yourself a trailer."

"I've had enough of you. When's your pathetic cock going soft, faggot?" she said.

"When your big, sloppy, adulterous pussy can't take any more, slut!"

I slapped the exposed side of her ass and thigh hard. She cursed me but her pussy grabbed my cock. I fucked her with deep and demanding strokes, and slapped her ass intermittently. Each slap brought forth a groan and stimulated her further. She shook her head to fight the passion rising in her, but it was a lost cause. She knew I had her now, knew she would cum despite herself. I slapped her ass harder.

"Say you're a slut," I demanded as I stopped with only the head of my cock in her.

Her face was needy, her eyes soft and wet in lust. "I'm a slut. A horny, whorish, cock-loving slut," she moaned. Her legs held me tightly in her. "Oh, Rick, you're fucking me so good!"

When she came, she screeched and thrashed the bed. I've always enjoyed Barbara's orgasms with their unrestrained bursts of passion, but I didn't even break rhythm. I fucked her to another orgasm and then a third before her expression said she'd had enough. I pulled out, jacked my cock twice, and came on her face and hair.

"God, that was something," Marla whispered reverently as she sat cross legged and playing with herself. Tim, kneeling on the bed, looked awed and a little frightened.

I stood up and dressed. Barbara squirmed up the bed, propped the pillows behind her, and lit a cigarette. Tim's cum oozed out of her ass as mine slid down her cheeks. As I walked toward the door, she called my name. I stopped and looked at her.

She exhaled and said, "We're all going to the Johnsons for a swing party. Why don't you join us?"

"No, thanks," I replied.

A tear rolled down her cheek. "I love you, Rick."

I shook my head disgustedly, opened the door, and slammed it behind me when I left. I took the elevators down to the main floor and went to the ballroom. It was forty-five minutes into the New Year. The hotel staff was beginning to remove the clutter, sweeping away the confetti and hauling off the garbage carts full of empty liquor bottles. I exited the door into the lobby to find it empty and quiet. I retrieved my overcoat from the coat-check, and went out the front door to the automobile valet where several couples were waiting for their cars.

The blast of January's frigid air and the realization I was a single man hit me at once. I never felt so cold and alone.

I went home, but I didn't sleep. I was at the office at five that morning. The divorce papers were complete New Year's Day and would be filed when the courthouse opened on the second. No point in making it more difficult. The divorce papers stated "mutual agreement" was the reason for our split. It provided our assets would be evaluated and she would get half that value in cash and her law partnership interest. No alimony or child support for either of us. We agreed to split the kids' college costs. And that was that. Twenty-three years of marriage shot to hell.

I spent New Year's night in a hotel. I had to get away from Barbara, who had called me all day. The sterile, commercial hotel room magnified my despondency. When I got home about nine in the morning the day after New Year's, Barbara had left for work. I found a long note pleading with me to stay with her.

Word spread fast. By the end of the day, the divorce was filed and everyone seemed to know our marriage was over.

I was forty-four, in excellent health, reasonably good-looking, and with a high-income. I was the ideal target for women seeking a husband. Truthfully, I was surprised at the direct and, some might say, coarse way the women approached me, coming out of the woodwork and the bushes to circle like buzzards around a carcass. All sorts of women. Some were married and only wanted to fuck. Most wanted a ring on her finger.

I had a date the night the papers were filed with a thirty-something accountant who worked for one of the big firms. She proved that conservative and reserved professionals can fuck with unbridled lust if they want to.

***

Barbara moved out January 4th. She called me regularly, pleading with me to relent and asking me to meet her. I did neither. The wives in the club-Marla, Patty, Sally, and four others-called or showed up at my door to persuade me to take Barbara back, and to passionately spout rhetoric on the advantages of swapping. Then they went to bed with me.

About eight weeks after I filed for divorce, Tiffany, a twenty-two-year-old friend of Beth, my elder daughter, called me. Tiffany had been a stereotypical teenaged slut, a sensual temptress who teased and put out. She got pregnant at eighteen and stopped hanging around with the old crowd, so I lost track of her. Had I been a cheater like Barbara was, Tiffany would have been on the top of my list of desired conquests.

"Hi, Mr. Warren. It's Tiffany Thompson," she said.

"Hi, Tiffany. Long time no see," I said. Visions of her in a bikini danced in my head.

"It has been almost two years. I heard through the grapevine you and Mrs. Warren are getting a divorce."

"That's right."

"I'd like to see you."

"Why don't you come over tomorrow night? I'll cook a few shrimp and we can talk," I said. "And I'll fuck your eyes out," I thought.

"What time?"

"Six-thirty," I said.

"I'll be there," she said.

Tiffany arrived at my house right on time. When I opened the door, she looked for a moment like she wanted to flee, but she gave me a big grin and a hug after I invited her in. I was surprised by her appearance. She had always been a hot number, prancing around our swimming pool in a smaller bikini than the other girls, or dressing for a party in clothes more revealing than I let Beth wear. And she was outrageously flirtatious, both with the boys always hanging around and with me, not that I minded.

Now she looked different. Under her hip-length denim jacket with the faux-wool liner, she wore low-rider denim jeans and a camel-colored stretch faux-suede shirt with snap closures. Her clothes were tight enough to reveal the dynamite body I remembered, but weren't skin-tight like she used to wear. Call it the difference between sexy-stylish and slutty. The bottom snap of her shirt was undone and her belly-button peeked out at me, without the half-circle bar and dangling chain she once wore. Her hair, which had been a light, bright blonde was now a dark honey color and still fell to the middle of her back. She wore a heart-shaped gold locket as big around as a quarter on a short, thin, gold chain, a single gold stud in each ear, and no other jewelry. The last time I'd seen her she had a ring on every finger.

Our conversation was stilted at first, but we soon relaxed as we caught up on each other's lives. She was in college part-time, working to provide for herself and Brittany, her daughter, and living with her parents to save money. She was proud of Brittany, eagerly sharing pictures of the brown-eyed pixie, and she was proud of herself and what she was accomplishing.

Tiffany had matured. She was witty, attractive, sweet, and most enjoyable. She flirted, as did I, but the flirting was much more discreet than I anticipated. She was a young woman now, not the wild teenager I remembered.

I barbequed despite the cold. We ate shrimp and tossed salad and sipped Kendall-Jackson chardonnay at the dining room table, and talked. After dinner, we did the dishes and talked before adjourning to the living room couch with fresh glasses of wine.

She sat with her bare feet on the couch so her knees were under her chin with her arms draped over them as she idly swirled the wine in her glass. Conversation died and I relished the moment and her.

She looked up at me and a crooked half-smile turned her lips. "When I was a girl, I had a crush on you. A big crush. I wanted you to throw me on my back and take me until I screamed. And I wanted you to make love to me and tell me I was the woman for you."

"I wish I'd known," I replied.

"Oh, you knew, and I knew you knew. You didn't do it because that's the kind of guy you are. That made me want you more."

"And what do you want now?"

"The same thing, but more." She studied my face to see if I understood what she said. "I hear there a lot of applicants in the 'become Mrs. Richard Warren' contest."

"An endless stream it seems."

"I'm not surprised. You're a man who would make any woman happy." My face clouded and she said, "I didn't mean that negatively, Rick. I can't imagine a woman leaving you."

"She didn't leave me. I left her."

"Why?"

"Because she had cheated since we married and she wanted my permission to cheat even more."

"Oh?" Tiffany said.

"She wanted an open marriage, you know, when either partner screws whoever they want."

"You didn't?"

"No, I didn't."

"Why not?" she asked.

The question surprised me. For a second, I thought she might be toying with me, but her demeanor was serious. The question spun me into an introverted spiral and she waited patiently.

Finally, I ducked her question and said, "I'll tell you this. Since I left Barbara, I made a promise to myself. I'm going to have sex with every woman I want."

"But you wouldn't do it while you were married to her?"

"No."

"Was that because you believe in faithfulness as part of marriage...or you didn't want other guys screwing your wife?"

"That's a good question," I replied.

"And what's a good answer?" she asked with a twinkle in her eyes.

"No comment," I said.

"Did you have sex with anyone else while you were married to her?"

"Technically, yes, because I started having affairs the day the divorce was filed."

"And before that?"

"No."

"Are you enjoying playing around?"

"Damn, but you ask a lot of questions."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry."

"Yes, you did," I replied.

She blushed and looked away, but her eyes quickly returned to mine. She sighed. "Yes, I did."

"Why?"

She spoke was a bright intensity, saying, "Starting when I was fifteen, I screwed every guy I wanted-except you. I was a slut, but I suspect I wasn't as promiscuous as most people thought. It wasn't drugs, although I've tried grass and coke. It was the pure enjoyment of sex, and more. Sex is more mental than physical, isn't it?"

I nodded. She sat her wine glass on the coffee table and scooted toward me to sit cross legged with her knee touching my leg. She put a hand over one of mine.

"After Brittany was born, something was different. I still love sex, but I realized I had sex with many men but not made love to any of them. There is a hollowness inside me a cock can't fill. So, I decided to quit screwing around and I haven't had sex in a year and a half. I'm waiting until I meet a man I think will fulfill all of me. Are you fulfilled by the women you're with?"

I pulled away and she blushed with embarrassment. "Look, it's getting late," I said. She nodded without looking at me. When she did look up, tears filled her eyes.

"I might as well put my foot all the way in my mouth. I came her to enter the contest." I looked befuddled and she half-smiled with embarrassment. "You know. The 'become Mrs. Richard Warren' contest."

"You don't know me that well."

"I think I do."

"You don't."

"I'd like to...if you'd give me the chance."

"It won't work," I said.

"Why?"

"For one thing, I'm old enough to be your father."

"You're young enough to be my lover and father to my children. All of them. I've seen you in action with Beth and Ginny, so I know you're an excellent father." She smiled with passion. "And I suspect you're an excellent lover."

"Let's find out," I said.

"To substitute fucking for feeling?"

"What difference does it make?" I replied with exasperation.

"All the difference in the world." She stroked my face lovingly. "I want you. I'm wet thinking of being under you. So, if you want to fuck me, I won't say no. But, Rick, I've got so much more inside me just waiting for the right man to let it out."

"I want to fuck you," I said.

"All right," she replied, but her eyes asked a question.

Oh, hell. What did I want? That was the question and I didn't know the answer. I damn sure knew I didn't want to think about it. I leaned toward her and our lips met. The kiss was hot enough to make my cock twitch and loving enough to twang my heart strings. We kissed again and again before I slowly lay back and pulled her on top of me.

She squirmed between me and the couch-back, and took a deep breath. "I like your smell," she whispered. "And the way you kiss." She ran her hand over my chest and down my leg, carefully missing my erection. "And the way you feel." I kissed her as the tips of her fingers lay softly on my cheek. She snuggled against me with her head nestled in the crook of my neck.

I liked her smell and her kiss, too, and the feel of her body on mine, and the warmth of her breath on my neck. I cupped her breast and gave it a gentle squeeze before finding the snaps to her shirt. I popped open the top one and the one below it. She pushed away slightly to give me access to the other snaps. She watched me with big, blue eyes as I popped open the last snap and pulled her shirt free. I unfastened her bra, kissed her again, and pulled her back against me. Our kissing was sweet and loving. Even my gentle caresses of her breast were for intimacy and not sex.

I closed my eyes to fall in and out of sleep. As I slept, I dreamed. And as I dreamed, conflicting images tormented my mind. When I looked at my watch, two hours had passed and Tiffany was sound asleep beside me. I gently shook her. She took a deep breath and raised her head. I kissed her lovingly.

"It's time for you to go home," I said.

"Don't you want me to stay?" she murmured.

"Yes, but not tonight," I replied.

"Will I see you again?"

"Of course. I promise I'll call you."

"Thank God. I was afraid I'd blown it."

I slept alone that night and the dreams continued. Dreams of sex and women and falling and tight situations. Dreams of Barbara as she was when we first met and fell into bed, when she was pregnant, and when we slipped away for a vacation, just the two of us. Dreams of times gone by.

The next morning, a sexual demon burst from within me. Compulsively, I called every woman I knew and asked them to have sex. I approached women I hadn't met, but who appealed to me when I saw them. I even saw a young woman on the street and offered her a thousand dollars to go to bed with me. She slapped me. I raised the offer to two thousand and she agreed. She wasn't worth it.

For three weeks, I was a sex machine, getting laid on an average of twice a day. Barbara called every day. She wouldn't take no for an answer. And during those three weeks, I received twenty-one letters from Tiffany. Some were only a greeting courtesy of Hallmark. Some were short notes. But four were long, handwritten letters, which included pictures of her and Brittany. Truthful letters. Soulful, insightful letters.

I called her after each of those. We met for lunch or a quiet dinner somewhere and we talked. We talked the way Barbara and I talked when we began-long talks full of hopes and dreams and laughter.

The final divorce decree came from the court. I had sold the beach house, the power boat, my gun collection, and the fine art pieces we'd acquired, and I'd cashed out my savings, but I still had the house and the capital in my law partnership. I wrote a check, called Barbara, and agreed to meet at her office to finalize the divorce.

When I arrived, Barbara was different. She looked more relaxed and comfortable. And she looked openly sexual, with her clothes slightly tighter and shorter, and her eyes more demanding and direct. After our business was complete, she said, "Please come over tonight. It'll be like old times. We can have dinner and talk before we go to bed."

"Why?"

"I love you and I want you back," she said as frustration bubbled from her. "I'll admit it. I screwed up, and I'm sorry I did." I couldn't help but smile. "Give me another chance." I shook my head. She put her arms around my waist and stared up at me with tears in her eyes. "We have twenty-three years of love and memories and two kids together. Don't throw that away. Don't throw me away. Please."

"Will you screw around?" I asked.

"Never again. I promise. I'll be faithful, if that's what you want," she said emphatically.

She lied. I knew it at once and my guts roiled. "I'll think about it," I said.

"Thanks, Rick," she said. She laid her head on my chest and held on for dear life. I put my arms around her.

"I've got an ISO ready to break and I'm going to New York in a few days. I'll call you when I get back," I said.

She kissed me goodbye. I left her standing there behind her desk, walked down the long hall to the reception room, through it, and into the outer hall. I took a deep breath and punched the elevator button. After the elevator deposited me on the ground floor, I walked out of the building and into March's crisp air. I turned toward the sun and raised my face to let its rays shine upon me. I wanted to scream, "I'm free. Thank God, I'm free," but I was afraid the cop on the corner would take me in.

I returned to my office and called Tiffany. I told her I was going to be out of town for a week or two and not to worry or call me. When I disconnected, I buried myself in my work. For the next two weeks, every daytime hour was spent on exhausting legal work. Every nighttime hour was spent thinking or dreaming about my life and women and children and love.

Barbara was right. We had shared and built memories that would never be erased, but those times were in the past and better left there. I called Barbara and told her it was over for good. She was crying when I disconnected.

It was time to build new memories. I called Tiffany.

"To what do I owe this pleasure?" she said brightly.

"I want to see you."

"I'm leaving for class and after that, I've got to go to work." When I didn't reply, she said, "Tell me to call in sick and I will."

"No. Let's have dinner tonight instead. We'll go to Pappas for seafood, so dress casually."

"What time?" she asked happily.

When I arrived at her parents' house to pick her up, she bounced out of the door and ran down the sidewalk before I could get out of the car. Under an open, mid-calf length London Fog foul-weather coat, she wore a Royal-Stewart-plaid skirt that came to her knees, and a navy-blue, fitted V-neck cardigan with two of its four buttons undone. She opened the passenger door, hopped in, and leaned over to be kissed, which I did, and, when I did, I tingled.

"You're beautiful," I said.

"Thank you. I'm glad you called," she said.

"Did you have any doubt?" I asked as I pulled away from the curb.

"Yes, I did," she replied softly.

We lapsed into silence with me seeming to concentrate on driving and her sitting in the passenger seat with her back against the door as she watched me. We were almost to the restaurant when I said, "I'm not sure what I want, Tiffany, so I won't make a commitment. Not now anyway."

"I understand, Rick."

"But I do want to spend more time with you."

"I'd like that."

"And I want to go to bed with you."

"Me, too."

The light changed to red and I stopped. Her eyes were hot and wild when I looked at her. In a flash, she flipped up her skirt, raised her hips, and slipped her red bikini panties down her legs. She crumbled them, held them to her nose, and then to my nose. I took a deep breath and her smell filled my senses.

"Take me to your bed and fuck me, Rick. Now. Please."

A car horn blared behind us. I turned left and headed toward home.

I turned into my driveway, put the car in the garage, and pushed the remote to lower the door. When I opened the back door, Tiffany slipped in ahead of me, spun into me, and threw her arms around my neck. I wrapped my arms around her as we kissed and her hands slid down me to struggle with my trousers' belt.

Her hands shook as she jerked my belt buckle free, undid my trouser button, and unzipped me. She pulled me with her as she backed up to the kitchen table. When she reached it, she yanked down my boxers, sat on the table, raised her skirt above her waist, and lay back. Her cardigan was unbuttoned. Her London-fog was crumpled under her. And her face was on fire.

"Put it in me. Hurry, Rick. Please hurry. That's it. Yes. Oh, God, yes."

Her hips thrust up and my cock slid past her lower lips and into the warm wet heat of her pussy. Her breath came in short bursts.

"That's it. Yes. Give me all of it. All. Now. God, you feel so good. I knew you would. I always knew. And I've wanted you. I've wanted you so much. So much. And now here I am with your cock in me. Your body on me."

Her pussy muscles played on my cock as she matched me stroke for stroke with her arms were around my neck.

"Oh, Rick. You're so good. So good to me. On me. In me. Oh, God, I'm going to cum."

She drove her elbows into the table as her back arched and her legs clasped my sides. I felt my ass twitch and my cock swell.

"Oh, baby, your hot cum's burning into me."

I stopped with my cock wedged in her and enjoyed the feeling of being with her and in her. As she rested in her afterglow, her diffused gaze was filled with love and passion, her hands softly stroking my back.

When my softened cock slipped from her, I undressed before I pulled her to her feet. I slid the London Fog and her sweater off her shoulders. She unfastened her skirt and it fell away. I picked her up in my arms, carried her to the bedroom, and laid her on the bed.

She squirmed to her knees and said, "I want to be on top this time."

I lay back and she swung her leg over mine to nestle her pussy against my cock. With elbows locked, she braced herself above me to stare down into my face. I felt my cum ooze out of her and onto me. Suddenly, she stopped moving and her expression changed. She was serious. She sat back and her pussy lips spread to wrap around the head of my soft cock.

She lifted her hair up and over her head. As she leaned forward again, it fell around us like a shimmering curtain, creating a little world for just us two.

"I want you, Rick. Only you. Every day, every way, for the rest of my life. I love you. I. Love. You."

"I love you, too," I said.

I pulled her down and kissed her, kissed her long and hard as my hands roamed her passionately and possessively. I felt her melt into me.

I knew this was the way two should be - as one. The good old times had just begun.

The End

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E. Z. Riter