Copyright © September 2018 by CiaoSteve
CiaoSteve reserves the right to be identified as the author of this work.
This story cannot be published, as a whole or in part, without the express agreement of the author other than the use of brief extracts as part of a story review.
This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons.
Author's Notes
Foreword #1: All characters in this story are over 18.
Foreword #2: Whilst the inspiration for this story may well be personal sentiment and experiences, the story itself is a work of fiction purely for your enjoyment.
Foreword #3: As with most of my stories, I have left the ending open. I have ideas on moving this forward into several chapters. Should that happen will be a matter of whether or not I have time to do so. Either way, I do hope you enjoy this story. I would welcome your opinions so please feel free to leave a comment. Your feedback helps no end to improve my work.
Foreword #4: Thank you so much to mbrow for being kind enough to read the draft story and provide his edits. Very much appreciated.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"Another one, Mr. Smith?"
I was broken out of my reflective state by the voice of the young waitress. There she was, standing at the side of the table with a half empty bottle of malt in her hand. It wasn't one of the best, but a drink was a drink and who was I to refuse. This was my third glass already, and so far, the only word I'd managed to write was "Depressed". It wasn't really the most inspirational of evenings.
I glanced up and Nilda smiled down at me. Sad isn't it, but I'd spent so many weeks in this same hotel that we were almost on first name terms. Nilda though, despite my protests, always kept a level of professionalism and never reciprocated with Steve. To her, I was always Mr. Smith. That said, she was always there with a cheery greeting, a smile and a top up your glass. I hadn't even replied, and the golden nectar was already filling my near empty tumbler. No ice, just how it comes was my approach when it came to malt.
"Thank you Nilda," I replied, holding a hand up before she filled it to the brim.
I watched as she turned and left. She was cute, I guessed mid-thirties, and originating from Buenos Aires. Nilda was too young for me though, but whenever I saw her I couldn't help but think of what used to be. Oh, how I wished I was a good ten of fifteen years younger and without this band of gold on my finger. At the time, many, many years ago it seemed so right to make that commitment, but you know what it's like . . . people change, and life moves on, whether you want it to or not. That was the story of my life, and on evenings like this I would simply mope around considering the present, or more to the point, the lack of any future.
Another sip of the amber nectar warmed the back of my throat as I glanced around the room. It was almost home from home. Every Monday I'd drive down, spend the week here and then drive back on the Friday. That was my life and, glancing around the lounge, I guessed it probably summed up the lives of many of the solitary men adorning the more than functional tables. In my case it all changed some six or seven years back. I'd have been around forty-five at the time and until then life had been good. We'd married young, maybe too young, but I guess you did things like that. For years though it seemed to be working in a practical sort of way. Yes, we weren't setting the world on fire, but we got along and even got down and dirty from time to time.
She was very traditional in her ways, which disappointed somewhat, but I did love her. Then it seemed that everything changed. Not instantly, but if I was to look at life now and compared it to life back then, they would be chalk and cheese. It was just that you didn't see it happen. Every step was a small rung on that ladder. What you never noticed though was that one of us was taking steps up the ladder and the other was taking steps down, the distance between the two of us growing month by month. What was the trigger? Wow, that
was
a million-dollar question. It probably started with a change in job. I'd been made redundant after some twenty years or so at the same place. It didn't take long to find another job, but that change in location began my frequenting of this place. The new job was too far away to commute each day.
Was that the trigger? On its own I guessed not, but at the time we were both not getting any younger and with that we found even our affection for each other diminishing. She was very conventional when it came to life, especially that part which happened in the bedroom. Sex - yes, I was prone to call it having sex and not making love - was a necessary evil rather than something desired. It was a way to make babies which then became something we just did, not often, but at least there was a sort of regularity. Regularity . . . yes, that was a very good word for it. Sex was something which happened, almost like a recipe for a good meal. You put the same old ingredients together and if you were lucky the outcome was somewhat enjoyable. Once again, it was so predictable. I could have sat there and written down the recipe with my eyes closed. Here goes . . .
Choose a quiet evening - yes it had to be evening as any other time of day would not be right - and retire to the bedroom. Turn the lights off and climb under the duvet together. I would strip off and she would remove her panties only. Every time I would ask to feel her nakedness against mine and, without fail, I would be turned down. Foreplay was taboo - foreplay was one of many things seen as being too kinky - bar for the odd kiss and the use of a hand to position myself at her pussy entrance. Oh, and I nearly forgot, there was just one position allowed which was the missionary.
Yes, that was the recipe for sex, but still I was happy to go along with her wishes. I guess I had sort of gotten used to it and accepted that at least some sex was better than none. The last five years or so have been devoid of any such excitement. It was the hormones she blamed. Maybe it was, who could tell, but instead of talking about it we let feelings muster until it was probably too late. I reacted to everything she would say, and with it my depressive state grew as I played her words over and over in my head. One evening in particular, a couple of years ago, summed it up. Why, I didn't know, but I just felt like trying to rekindle some lost spirit. Needless to say, it didn't work, but the response hurt much more than the lack of any action. Those phrases she had used now stick in the back of my mind, like knives stabbed through my heart and soul.
"Why can't we go back to how we were?" I asked.
"I don't want it," came the reply. "I don't want you all over me. I don't need it any more."
"Do you think that might change in the future?"
"
No
! If I wanted sex, I could go out and get anyone off the street. I love you, but not like that. You are being so selfish in not understanding what I need."
That night I knew exactly where I stood.
So now I had taken to sitting here in this hotel, night after night, dreaming about what we had. They said it was better to have loved and lost then never to have loved at all. These days though, I think they might just have been lying a little bit. The only thing that kept me moderately sane was this diary, the leather-bound book sat here on the table in front of me. This was my little book of secrets, the place where I made notes, collected memories and built ideas. This diary was both my fantasy and my inspiration. What I wasn't getting physically any more, I had more than made up for in literary images. If anyone was to pick up and read this book they would find a window into the world of a sad, depressive middle-aged man staring from a distance at the flickering embers and hoping one day the fire would burst back into life again.
I'd taken up writing to express myself, secretly of course as this was one of the taboo kinks that my marital half would not put up with. For sure the J.K Rowlings or Stephen Kings of this world were not losing any sleep over my foray into the literary world, but I had an outlet to express both my feelings and desires in words. Flick through the diary and you would have found many pages with simple statements of sentiment, single words summing up emotions and, on occasions, matched with a suitable doodle. These were the not so productive days when real-life ruled the roost. Other days though would be packed with scribbled words, hurried drawings and the bare bones of yet another sex-filled, explicit fantasy.
It was from these musings that I would stoke my passion for writing. Every now and again I would add meat to those bones and the merest fantasy would play out in front of me as a longer story or even a series of chapters. I can still remember the first ones like they were only yesterday. A tale of a secretary, who had fallen on hard times, but discovered her real self through a journey into the adult sex industry. In another, a young research assistant who found herself up close and personal with a vampire, was bitten in the throes of orgasm and gradually transformed into a sexually charged succubus. A step-sister went about getting what she wanted from her step-brother; what she gave him for his birthday and Christmas were enough to set the coldest heart afire. There were many more entries which could become stories for a future day. Some were pure fantasy, for example the succubus tale, whereas others had a much more personal touch with characters or occasions based upon real life people or places. An example of such was the Nilda in this story. She did exist in a hotel in Buenos Aires - a hotel which indeed I had frequented for many weeks of my life - always with a smile, a cheery welcome and a top up your glass. Oh, and
yes
, it was my glass she filled up and yes, she was cute.
This was my passion. I wrote, short stories . . . explicit, erotic stories. Maybe one day I was even planning to publish one. I would never have dared to admit this to my other half or to have even risked her finding any of my written fantasies. As I already said, this was a kink she would definitely not have approved of. My desires were the one thing I had to keep to myself, and this nondescript leather-bound diary was my little book of secrets.
Another sip of the amber nectar helped to pass the time as I stared at my one piece of productivity for the evening; that single word staring back at me . . . "Depressed". Something though had eaten away at my concentration. I could hear voices coming from somewhere over towards the entrance. One was my Nilda, that one I was certain of, but the other was a woman's voice which I didn't recognise; a younger voice, an excited, happy voice. Broken from my contemplative state, I glanced up. It was the hairstyle which hit me first. The sharpest neck length asymmetric bob, in what could only be described as gloss black, contrasting wildly with the pasty white skin beneath. She stood tall and, from what I could see, of relatively slim build. It was difficult to get a full view though from where I was sitting. I watched attentively - yes maybe you could say I was staring - as she walked inside, trying to catch a better glimpse of her beauty as she meandered through the mass of tables and chairs.
As always seemed to happen, she disappeared off in the opposite direction to where I was sitting, but not before giving me an eyeful of the slenderest legs imaginable. They seemed to go on for ages, emerging out of a pair of mile high stilettos and disappearing once more under the hem of the shortest miniskirt you were likely to see. Out of my reach, that was for sure, and judging by the smart attire adorning her perfect body, I suspected that she was out of everyone's reach in this place. Nilda followed soon afterwards with a bottle of fizz in hand and a couple of glasses. Strange I thought to myself, one beautiful lady and two glasses. Obviously, the boyfriend wouldn't be far behind. Over the hubbub of the lounge it was a little difficult to hear, but I was almost convinced that Nilda had wished her a happy birthday as she poured the wine.
