Julia awoke slowly from a blissful dream. Stealthily, reality intruded and overlaid the sylvan images flitting through her mind: the morning sunlight was dappled not by a canopy of woodland leaves, but by the patterns of the lace curtains; the insistent pressure between her legs was the work not of the tongue of a wild-eyed woodman, but of her own fingers; the clamour in her ears was not the call of forest creatures, but the raucous snoring of her husband Gerald, sound asleep in the bed next to hers.

Julia sighed, and teased her pubic curls with her fingertips, trying to recapture the sensation of running her hand through the tousled locks of the golden-tongued lad who had surprised her bathing in the tree-shaded pool. But the dream had dissolved. She folded her hand round the wet entrance of her sex and inserted one finger, and then another. She clenched her thighs tightly about her hand as she rolled on to her side and suppressed a loud groan of pleasure. Her other hand slid down the cleft between her buttocks and she pulled gently at the tiny sensitive hairs surrounding her anus; but Gerald's relentless snores infiltrated her every thought. She turned on to her back, and brought her syrupy fingers to her face. Momentarily overwhelmed by the scent of her own secretions, she closed her eyes and ran her fingertips across her lips, opening her mouth to lick and then suck the sweet moisture. And then after staring at the ceiling for several minutes, she threw back the damask-covered quilt, swung her long legs out of the bed, and padded across the white carpet towards the bathroom.

Showered and lightly talcumed with Chanel, Julia studied her reflection in the wall of mirror tiles as she towelled her black hair. I don't look thirty-two, she told herself; in fact, I look about twenty-five. I don't weigh any more than I did when I married Gerald. I'm still a size ten -- well, sometimes I need a twelve for trousers, but I don't want to look like a boy, do I? A few lines and dimples at the edges of my eyes and mouth; but they add character, I think. If I were happier I suppose I could call them laughter lines. Nothing sagging: no extra chins, and my face -- which I still think looks rather French -- is as firm as ever. My tits are bigger than they used to be, but they used to be almost non-existent, and they're certainly not big enough to start sagging. And do my little brown nipples still respond to even the lightest touch? Oh yes. Yes, they like that. But the rear view is still my best: if I turn round, and lean forward slightly, and stick my bottom out, and look over my shoulder...

Julia saw, looking back at herself, a reflection of sensual beauty. This pose displayed nearly all of her best features, her long slim legs, her tight but rounded buttocks, separated by a valley of black curls leading down to a large, dark, swollen, inviting split prominence hanging between her thighs, her narrow waist, and the dark golden expanse of her unblemished back. Her tangle of black hair fell haphazardly across her shoulders and her large, dark lustrous eyes peered through a fringe of curls. Any man would want me, she thought; and quite frankly, the way I feel at the moment, any man could have me, any way he wanted me. She dabbed perfume behind her ears, round her nipples, and along the crease at the tops of her thighs where her buttocks flared outwards. Even if Gerald has another woman -- which is far-fetched enough -- he would still be interested in my body, wouldn't he, she wondered. I almost wish I could be taken back to -- But no; that would be unbearable, really. I'll go and wake Gerald with a kiss.

She folded aside the quilt and looked down at her stillsnoring husband. Gerald had had such a wonderful body, she remembered, when she had first known him. Flab had accrued gradually, in unnoticeable increments, but the shape she had loved was still just visible: the broad chest, the short, muscular limbs, now shrouded in fat and dominated by a mountainous paunch. She knelt beside the bed and placed her mouth over the nearer nipple while her hand stroked down his torso to grip his flaccid member. The snores faltered, and Julia felt his flesh beginning to swell in the palm of her hand. His eyes opened.

'Jules! Oh, that's nice. Mmm, yes, don't stop... Sunshine. It's morning. What time is it?'

Julia felt her heart sink. She closed her eyes and nibbled the hairs on his chest while rubbing the tip of his half-erect penis.

'Hold on a sec, Jules.' Gerald was trying to sit up. 'God, look at the time. London's already open. Let me just have a quick look at what's been going on in Tokyo.'

Julia remained kneeling, her face buried in the sheet, while Gerald hauled himself upright and strode towards the computer terminal in the corner of the room. She held back her tears of frustration as she heard him switching the machine on; she tried to shut out the too-familiar sounds of the computer's insidious whine and the clattering of Gerald's fingers on the keyboard.

'Gerald,' she said in a muffled monotone, 'there are more things to life than the bloody international money markets.'

'What? Oh, yes, dear. I know. But I put through a deal in the Far East last night. Got to keep tabs on it, haven't I?'

'Don't you ever get tired of making money out of money, Gerald? Don't you ever want to spend any of it?'

'I thought that was your speciality, dearest. Just joking! But this is my job, you know. It pays for all this.' He waved a hand to indicate the Sanderson decor of the bedroom, and resumed his study of the numbers glowing greenly on his screen.

'Couldn't we at least live in town? You'd find things to interest you...'

'We've been through all that, Jules. Many times. I have to have an offshore base, as you know very well. And it's peaceful here on the island; no distractions. You can go to the mainland whenever you like, can't you? Spend weekends in the flat?'

It's not the same, Julia thought. But all she said was: 'I'll go and tell Maria to prepare breakfast. On the terrace, I think, don't you?' There was no reply.

* * *

When Gerald, wearing his towelling bathrobe, emerged through the patio doors, Julia was still staring at the letter that she had dropped amongst the crumbled remains of her croissant. The envelope was in her left hand; she could feel the hard edges of the small transparency that was taped in the deepest corner of the manilla, but she had no need to prise it out and look at it. She knew what the photograph would show her.

'Success!' Gerald announced. 'The deal went through. No trouble. Now I could do with some coffee. Maria! Where is that damned girl? Maria! Anything interesting in the post, Jules?'

'What? Oh. Yes. A pile of letters for you. Next to your plate. Some faxes came during the night, they're there too. The usual dull stuff.'

'What's that you've got? Anything good? Maria, there you are. Coffee, and toast. And marmalade without lumps in this time!'

'It's just an -- invitation. You remember I went to a -- well, a sort of health club, on the mainland, a few years ago? They want me to go back for a couple of weeks.'

'Sounds all right. How much?'

'How much what? Oh, yes. Seven and a half thousand.'

'What? Julia, that's outrageous. You can't possibly.'

'Gerald, you make ten times that much every night while you're asleep. The money's nothing, compared to...'

'All right, all right. If you really want to go.'

Julia managed an ironic laugh. 'It's not a matter of wanting to go. I think I have to.'

'When will you go? I seem to remember we've nothing much on after the middle of July.'

'Tomorrow.'

'Tomorrow? You're joking. We've got dinner at the Villiers', and then next week Harbottle's coming over to stay while I grill him about Singapore, and--'

'Tomorrow, Gerald. They say it's the only available date. I'll have to go. One doesn't ignore one of these invitations. It's a very select club.'

'Well if you ask me they go about things in a bloody fishy fashion. What sort of place is it?'

'The Private House? Gerald, it's like another world. It's like stepping back in time. I think I'm almost looking forward to it.'

Copyright © 1991, 1995 by Esme Ombreux