My vibrant, sensual Becky was taken from me after six blissful years together. Gone so swiftly, so cruelly. Just another hit and run victim. The driver was never found. So sudden the loss, I was reduced to an aching shell, sure it would take me forever to shake off the spell of her. Alive but running on empty, I was sustained only by memories of her.
Sustained, yet tortured. Sustenance was in recalling her infectious giggle, her azure blue eyes, her reproving frown when I had too much to drink, the sheer joy of her open welcoming face.
But at night, alone in that bed, I tortured myself reliving all the intimate moments we had shared; the uncertain, yet eager way she had surrendered her virginity to me, an ex-gigolo who had experienced women in many forms; the quickening of her breath as I paid homage to her small but perfect breasts, with my fingers, lips and tongue; the exquisite smooth skin of her inner thigh; the way she trembled as my fingers trailed through her tawny triangle, lingering there as she squealed, "You're teasing me." So I would slowly venture into that secret valley. I relived her body spasms as my tongue replaced my finger on her magic spot, and our mutually wild coming together, building to that wonderful crescendo, each luxuriating in the joy of the other's body.
Her early inhibitions gone she would take the lead wanting only to pleasure me. Her mouth enveloping my eager erection, drawing me to the back of her throat, her blue eyes turned up to see my face and gauging, and delighting in the reaction she was having.
For nearly two years I spent my nights reliving our time together, ending up either tearful or with a massive erection, often both. Having no wish to relieve myself by hand, I'd get up and take a cold shower. When that didn't work I'd dress and walk into the midnight cool.
Friends tried to set me up, urging me to get into mixed company. Half heartedly I went along with it, being introduced to unattached women, mainly divorcees. Most of them were highly attractive ladies, and given my active past it was hard to believe that, after two years of celibacy, I had little interest in any of them. Becky remained strong in my mind. Some were peeved by my reluctance, others were less interested than I was, while one brightly dyed blonde, clearly over forty years, leaned into me and whispered, "I swallow, you know." And when I muttered, "Oh, hell." she replied with a salacious wink, "No-- heaven."
But even that kind of promise failed to appeal. It seemed I was a lost cause.
I lived in a comfortable three bedroomed house with gardens front and rear, and one Sunday morning, I was in my front garden pruning back some rampaging shrubs when I noticed three people all dressed in black coming out of a house about five blocks down on the other side of the road. They crossed to my side and as they approached in unusual single file, I saw they were each wearing long black coats and black hats. A tall man in front, followed by two women. As they came level with my garden I said a friendly, "Good morning!"
The man, early fifties I guessed, glanced, gave a curt nod, his long pasty face remaining grim. A similar expression showed on the face of the second woman, probably his wife.
The third was younger, mid twenties, her eyes flickered towards me and then down. And I stood there with my breath caught up in my throat. That face. Delicate, pale, without any make-up was absolutely beautiful, high cheek bones, full lips. I heard the shuddering of my own breath as they moved away. For thirty seconds Becky's image had been blanked from my mind. Guilt poured in on me.
"What about that, then, Jack?"
The voice snapped me out of my stupor. Mrs Grange leaned over the hedge in the next door garden.
"Who—who are they?" I managed to gasp, my eyes fixed on the retreating figure.
"Moved into number 78 about three or four weeks ago. Name's Bakerwell. He's one of these religious sect preachers," Mrs Grange was the eyes and ears of the street. "Creationists or something like that. No alcohol, no decorative clothing, no gambling and, get this, Jack, no sex except for procreation." She laughed out loud, "That's their daughter. Which means they've done it once. God, must be a bloody cold house that one."
It did sound weird. But that face lingered in my mind for a long while, only when I lay in bed that night was I able to call up Becky's tingling touch, and once again, cold showered, I took my midnight walk, noticing as I passed number 78, a light shining in the window of what would be the smaller bedroom. Was that her room? Why was I suddenly bothered?
It was two weeks later that I saw the black clad figures leaving number 78 again. A curiosity about that face had remained but on this day I was surprised to see that there was only the two elder Bakerwells. No sign of the girl. With an uncomfortable sense of disappointment I went to ask Mrs Grange, who told me that the girl appeared to have moved out. Not on holiday, she thought, it looked more permanent than that.
And I remembered that there had been no light in that bedroom window for a week or so. But why should I feel so heavy hearted? I didn't even know the girl.
And that, as they say, seemed to be that.
Only it wasn't. Much of life can be dependent on luck, coincidence or just call it chance. But the following week my business of buying, finding and providing old films and books took me to the local annual book fair.
After about fifteen minutes of viewing the bigger stalls I started drifting to the older books. A place where bargains can often be found. I was reaching for a copy of Edgar Alan Poe stories, hoping it might be an early edition, when a fine female hand picked up a book near my target. I glanced up and it was like being kicked in the chest.
That haunting face. I had only seen it framed by a black hat and coat but now it was the vibrant raven black of her hair that flowed to her shoulders. The full mouth was accentuated by a gentle pink lipstick. A white blouse outlined a pert bosom.
My voice sounded like I'd just come from a ten mile run as I stammered, "Hello---Miss Bakerwell, isn't it?" Why had I remembered the name? Why was I feeling like this? What about Becky?
She looked up at me with some surprise and a little uncertainty showing in her strikingly green eyes. "Yes, it is. Oh, hello—you were the night walker."
"The what?"
"Didn't you used to walk past my parent's house around midnight?"
Staggered that she knew, I could only give a dumb nod. All around us people were jostling. That brought me to my senses. "Look, would you allow me to buy you a coffee? There's a room at the back of the hall"
She hesitated only a moment. A nervous glance at me. And then like sunshine a smile lit up that tantalising face, "I'd like that."
As soon as we were settled at a cosy table near the window looking out on bright floral gardens, she told me her name was Maria, and I asked about her seeing me at midnight.
"Just by chance one night. Then I started watching for you." She blushed as soon as she said it. "I don't mean—I didn't--"
I chuckled, delighted by the idea of her watching for me. I felt myself entering a a new mind state. For the first time in two years a woman appealed to me. "It's no problem." I said, enjoying her innocent embarrassment.
"Is it rude of me to ask why you walked then?"
How rude would it be to give her the truthful answer? To walk off a huge erection!
"I'm a poor sleeper," I said.
"Your wife doesn't mind?"
