Erotic Thriller, Short Story

Tea For Two

Missing for three weeks, Janey Alcott’s body was found washed up on a beach

At first, I felt a little embarrassed looking through the lonely hearts page. But really, where was the harm? Reading about other single people was a comfort. Interesting too — the way they described themselves and explained what they were looking for.

One particular advert in — Tea for Two — caught my attention.

Penpal wanted…

Sounded like a nice man. Single, six years older than me and, to be honest, a bit of a scholar. Graduated from college, that impressed me. I’d attended secretarial school. Bloody good shorthand… and typing was OK, but have never been much of a reader.

All correspondence was sent via the magazine’s Post Office Box Number, for safety reasons. He replied to my letter straight away, asking for a photo. I found a suitable one at the back of a drawer. The picture was only a year old, taken at a friend’s wedding. I was looking smarter than usual in a linen suit, nipped-in waist, shown off to a treat by the jacket, hair cascading in waves over my shoulders.

He liked what he saw. Called me a looker. Suggested all the guys were probably after me. I blushed as I sipped my tea and read his words. Makes me smile, looking back. Before long, we were both writing twice a week. It kept me busy those long winter evenings.

I’d been too shy to ask for a photo in return, but his letters were very entertaining, full of funny tales and reviews of whatever he was currently reading. I never felt I was missing out, not knowing what he looked like. My imagination soared, and I enjoyed picturing him as my prince charming.

Within a month or so, things grew more intense. We discussed our pasts and hopes for the future, and seemed to understand each other. But without warning he told me we’d have to stop. Explaining it was not fair that he was only offering friendship via letters. I begged him to reconsider. I’d come to rely on our correspondence, and the idea of no more letters was upsetting. It was then… that he told me.

Five years before, he’d been convicted of murdering his wife. If he served all of his 25-year sentence, he was due out in 1995. Shocked to the core, I ran to the bathroom and immediately vomited realising that he’d been writing to me from a prison cell.

What should a girl like me do? I wrote and asked him for his full name, thinking perhaps it was a joke. Maybe he had a twisted, macabre sense of humour. He replied by return of post.

David Alcott.

Now I realised he wasn’t joking. Alcott was notorious — the murder had made him a household name. His face had been on all the front pages when he was finally convicted.

At the library I found the micro-fiche record of the trial to be very informative.

Missing for three weeks, Janey Alcott’s body was found washed up on a beach. Despite the jury’s verdict, her husband still claims to be completely innocent.

After twelve days of trying to forget him, I gave in, and it was then our letters changed — took an erotic turn as we both craved further intimacy. His prose was very eloquent, with long, careful descriptions of his exact desire and his need to explore every inch of my body. To probe every orifice, hear me scream out his name, and force me to a shuddering climax. Usually breathless after reading — my hand would reach down and caress my slit, until I came, precisely as he had imagined in his letter.

Out of the blue, I received a visitor’s invitation in the post. I was nervous but didn’t think twice.

The journey took over an hour. I arrived and was shown to a small room with a table and two chairs. I was shaking with nerves when David sat down opposite. Each of us stared across at the other, taking in every minute detail. I babbled on about my job, straining to relax, and was very aware of his piercing stare, those cool, green eyes fixed upon me. His gaze held my own and then moved slowly… down… to my breasts. He was undressing me in his head and instinctively I knew his cock was now straining against his uniform pants.

I made three more visits. We became even closer. More than once he repeated the story he had told the jury — that he last saw his wife setting out alone for a walk across the dunes. I believed him.

One day the pass came, and I threw it in the bin along with all his letters. What was the point? Each meeting was the same: intense looks, unfulfilled needs and the knowledge of him alone with my letters, picturing me naked, legs open and touching myself while he stroked his shaft.

In the end, it was all too much.

Geoff was a nice, ordinary man. Every week-day we caught the same train to work. It started with smiles, coffee, then a first date at the cinema to see Saturday Night Fever. We had a kiss and grope in the back row. Indeed, Geoff was quite handsome, but was certainly no John Travolta. My family liked him though, and we married in the summer of 1979.

The desire for children united us, but the years passed — and it was not to be. We had both been hard workers, however, and when we amicably divorced after 12 years, I received a tidy sum. Bought a cottage by the sea and a Labrador — Cleo — to keep me company. It would be a lie to say I never thought of David. At night, he was often on my mind as my hand teased another orgasm from my body.

Every day I walked the dog along the beach and watched summer turn to autumn. Then one Tuesday afternoon I saw him coming towards me. Dark hair peppered with grey and sporting designer stubble, but apart from that, visibly unchanged.

We never made it to the bed. Falling through the front door, kissing, he pulled up my skirt, his fingers sought my moist sex. Then, lifting me up on to the table, he roughly thrust his cock into my core. Engrossed as if my cunt was invented entirely for his pleasure. Pulling out slowly and pushing in leisurely, my pussy dripping with desire. Finally, speeding up, fucking with meaning, his balls slammed against my arse and I came loudly and thankfully — it had been a long time. His climax followed as he groaned deeply and fell on top of me.

Prison had hardened him. He’d developed a short fuse, so asking him anything about his past was difficult — he tended to lose his temper.

It was inevitable we would marry, and apart from the fact that Cleo has never taken to him — we couldn’t be happier. Understandably, David doesn’t like to socialise too much. We spend a lot of time together. Because of my savings — and he has some too from his first marriage — he enjoys pottering around the garden and reading. He doesn’t need to work, and, well, we’re not getting any younger.

The sex is amazing. Whenever he wants me I have to oblige straight away, or be punished. The other day when I got back from the office, he was waiting with belt in hand. Sitting down on an easy chair, he ordered me to take off my trousers and panties. Laying me across his lap, he thrashed my arse with the belt as I shrieked. Then, while my skin was still smarting I felt a wet finger enter my anus. It was soon replaced with his cock, and I was pushed down over the arm of the sofa. This is his favourite sexual act. I like to rub my clit as he bangs me hard from behind, and we both cum together. David says I am more… compliant… after a good spanking. To be honest, I think he’s right. I so love to please him.

Enough reminiscing. Today he wants us to go out for a change — for a walk along the cliff path. That particular route is not recommended at this time of year — it’s bitterly cold and windy up there, and there’s bound to be some ice…but I’m so happy he wants to leave the house… I’ll go and put on my boots.

More from May…