Margaret's Awakening , livre ebook

Margaret’s Awakening
Ted Brandwood




First published in 2017 by
House of Erotica
www.houseoferoticabooks.com
Digital edition converted and distributed by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
© Copyright 2017 Ted Brandwood
The right of Ted Brandwood to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any person who does so may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.



1
Her husband had departed for work as usual at seven-thirty and the boys left for school an hour later. During the interval between those events Margaret Blake hid her impatience well, so well that nobody in the family suspected that this Thursday was anything but a perfectly normal day. She had been tempted to begin packing the moment her sons left the house, but waited for a further twenty minutes, fearful that one of them would return for some forgotten item, a fairly common occurrence.
At last, she brought the suitcases down from the loft, dusted them over and placed them on the bed. She began to fill them with clothing selected from the wardrobe. She chose with care, conscious that once she left the house there could be no coming back to retrieve a favourite blouse or pair of shoes. There could be no coming back for anything. The suitcases filled, she went to the bathroom where she applied her make-up, a daily, time consuming ritual for her. Not considering herself naturally pretty, her vanity demanded that she compensate by the skilful and careful application of cosmetics. This morning, she took even greater care than usual. She wanted to look her best when Andrew Burton arrived to take her away for ever from the tedium of living with Bill and their sons.
By quarter-past eleven, immaculately turned out in a powder blue costume and white silk blouse, Margaret was to be found in the front room, standing in the bay-window but concealed from her neighbours prying eyes by net curtains. She gazed fixedly down the street, her expression becoming anxious. Her lover had promised to be there by eleven. Margaret was surprised by her own anxiety, something she had never felt before about any man, certainly not her husband. Marriage to Bill had been a spontaneous act of rebellion, one in the eye for over-protective parents, especially her mother, who disapproved of her choice, believing that her daughter could do better than wed Bill Blake. The excitement of that rebellion quickly gave way to boredom with a goodlooking husband she found dull and unadventurous. Every year of their marriage had seen them go to the same place for their annual holiday, Brittany, to stay in the same gite, eat in the same restaurant and drink in the same bar. It was a matter of pride to Bill that the French barmen and waiters recognised him and tolerated his excruciating French. When not on holiday, every week at home followed a nearly identical routine. Meals always at the same time, watching the same television programmes.
Throughout the sixteen years of marriage Margaret’s rebellious, hedonistic spirit and desire for excitement caused her to flirt outrageously with other men who happened to be around when her husband was present. At first the motive had been to stir Bill into giving some sign of jealousy, but not once did he reveal any emotion. Occasionally, after a particularly risqué performance he would advise his wife of the dangers she was inviting. ‘One of these times, Margaret, you’ll go too far with a bloke when I’m not around, and get raped, or something.’
Margaret would respond with a disarming smile and a denial that such would happen. Behind the casualness though, she concealed a tremor of excitement at the thought. Often, as she lay in the darkness after Bill’s lacklustre efforts at love-making Margaret imagined some man not taking ‘no’ for an answer, some testosterone filled male who presented an air of danger. She thought how exciting that could be, and so different from the tedious, brief couplings with her husband. Only once had she come near to experiencing the reality, when one of bill’s friends whom she had been provoking, caught her alone in the kitchen. She had turned from the refrigerator as he entered the room, exposing his erection. The man had embraced her, pressing his hardness against her as he kissed her on the mouth. He released her quickly and zipped up his flies when he heard someone else approaching. She had not told anyone of that incident.
In reality, many of those with whom she flirted were clearly excited by the attention of an attractive, coquettish housewife, but too fearful to try their luck. As soon as her husband’s attention was elsewhere, or when Bill left the room, it was common for a male hand to test the firmness of a buttock or caress some other part of the desired object, but that is usually as far as it went. She enjoyed such indiscretion and would tease the man to greater boldness, rewarding him with whispered encouragement, though none really appealed to her. They were all too similar to Bill, but without the good looks. Indeed, most of those involved were her husband’s friends or colleagues, invited to the house by him.
Andrew Burton had been different. A distant acquaintance of Bill, rather than a friend, Andrew came to the house one evening in the company of Bill’s bowling partner, David English, the man who had exposed himself to her in the kitchen. Burton’s response to Margaret’s behaviour appeared cool, even disdainful. Though Bill was absent from the room for a good half-hour during the evening, Andrew did not respond to Margaret’s teasing. He danced with her when invited, but his eyes registered only amusement at her whispered ‘I’m yours, tonight’. Perhaps it was the lack of interest that caused Margaret to lie awake that night thinking about him. She was unaccustomed to such behaviour from a man, and was piqued by Burton’s rejection. Thoughts of what might have been aroused her to the point where she stirred her husband into activity that predictably failed to satisfy.
The next morning, shortly after the boys had left for school, Margaret responded to a ring on the front doorbell by peeping round the lounge curtains. To her amazement, she saw Andrew Burton standing in the porch. Still in her dressing gown and minus her make-up, she panicked, called down the hall for the man to wait a minute and hurriedly put her face on in the bathroom. Though proud of her trim figure, Margaret never let anyone see her without the mask of cream and powder. Having applied the mask and feeling more presentable, she then answered the door. Andrew apologised for disturbing her and said that he had left his coat the evening before. When invited in he accepted the offer of coffee and took a seat on the settee as she headed for the kitchen.
Margaret only ever flirted when Bill was around as insurance against some man taking matters further than she wished. Andrew’s coolness had intrigued her however, and as she made the coffee she decided to test her visitor’s resolve. When taking the seat opposite him she leaned forward to reach her coffee on the low table, well aware that her billowing dressing gown did not conceal the absence of a bra. There was no response, though she could swear that Andrew’s eyes were drawn to the exposed breast, if only fleetingly.
After some twenty minutes of polite but inconsequential conversation Andrew stood up and took a couple of steps towards the door. As Margaret too attempted to rise it suddenly became clear that the man had no intention of leaving, just yet. To her astonishment, he stooped to thrust a hand down the neck of her dressing-gown and seized her left breast none too gently. Falling back into her chair she protested loudly, telling him to let her go at once. He did relax his hold, but began to caress the firm little breast with gentle fingers. She froze, staring into his face as he spoke.
‘Isn’t that what you wanted Margaret, last night and this morning? You had enough time before answering the door to find something less revealing to wear.’ The voice remained cool, as if they were still discussing the trivia of a moment earlier. He laughed as she tried to rise from the seat. His other hand seized the material of the gown and tugged it aside, exposing her nakedness to the naval. More would have been revealed had the gown not been held in place by a plaited silken belt. He reached down and tugged at the end of the belt, so slipping the bow by which it was tied. The gown fell away completely, exposing her nakedness.
As she again tried to rise he pressed her back into the chair. Holding her breast more gently now, he placed his other hand beneath her chin and tilted her head back so that their eyes met. She protested again, but her insincerity was apparent and again his eyes registered amusement. He stooped and kissed her on the mouth, inserting his tongue between the painted lips as he released her breast and moved his hand down across her belly. He began to handle her body in ways her husband never had, exploring her flesh with boldness. They were strong hands, firm in their touch, but not hurting her. Despite her initial panic, she felt her body relax, something that Burton noted with satisfaction.
Falling to his knees he pulled her forward in th