In the Apple Tree
by Mathilde MaddenIn the apple tree, in the dark, I am waiting for my moment.
I am spread on my stomach across the widest, flattest branch, telephoto lens at the ready. And I am ready for him.
The garden is so quiet, with its dark grass and frozen fruit trees. Even the dog, who is curled up at the bottom of my chosen tree, is silent. He doesn't mind this intrusion onto his territory. After all, this used to be my garden.
I can't see my watch in the blackness, but I would guess it is past eleven. Past eleven and he's not even called the dog in yet. I'm getting very impatient. As impatient as a woman in a tree with a three-quarters full bladder has every right to be.
I try to take my mind off things. I think smugly about the satisfyingly stealthy way the latch on the side gate yielded to my coat hanger. The way this perfectly positioned tree had silently waited for me, with every branch perfectly placed for scaling and the bedroom window just where I needed it to be. I think about the way the dog had only looked at me.
Then, finally, the back door opens and a tall silhouette persuades the dog from his post, guarding the bottom of my tree. And then I know my moment is almost here.
I wait and listen, hearing my breathing seem to get louder and louder in the midnight garden. I watch as lights downstairs go off and lights upstairs go on. And then I see him in the bedroom. And as he stands there, by the dressing table, a second figure comes into the bedroom that used to be my bedroom and touches what used to be mine.
My breath fades away to nothing as I look at them. They're both looking in the mirror, probably thinking what I'm thinking, that they are almost as identical as twins, that they are like two halves of a circle. My ex-husband and the other man.
When they start to kiss it isn't cold in the garden any more. I'm on the edge of my front-row seat. I cannot wait.
I suppose it's kind of wrong - humiliating, almost, to want this the way I do. To want to see this, and not for any kind of cathartic or masochistic reasons, but just because it is so fucking hot. Perfect angles of sweeping shoulder blades, hot damp chests pressed close, legs entwined, mouths sliding over each other, slick and rough.
I relax in the arms of my familiar apple tree, held in its gentle wooden arms, as I watch them kiss. And my bladder is long forgotten, as I slide my hand into my knickers and stroke myself as I enjoy the show. The window frames them almost like a television, although the spectacle isn't something I see on any of the channels I subscribe to.
The other man takes something from the dressing table and then reaches round my husband, circling him in a firm embrace. And then he snaps the silver handcuffs on, turning my husband from equal partner to willing victim instantly as his wrists are firmly locked behind his back.
Captor and captive then move onto the bed, the other man sitting on the edge, while my husband drops to his knees, burying his face in the waiting lap. The other man sighs and falls back against waiting pillows. And my husband sucks cock.
I squirm against rough bark.
I love to see him like this. On his knees in front of the other man, his hands locked in the strict embrace of cuffs and a cock filling his mouth. The other man tangles his fingers in my husband's hair, twining strands into knots and using the grip to force my husband's head down and down, fucking his mouth, deeper and deeper.
But that isn't where it ends. It never is. At first it seems like the other man isn't far off coming as he lolls and rolls in almost-ecstasy on the bed. But with iron self control he pulls back, yanks my husband's head up and back and leans forward to run a soft tongue across my husband's exposed throat.
I grip the branches hard and swallow even harder, screwing up my eyes, almost as if the scenes are too much to keep looking at.
When I open them a moment later, my husband is sprawled face down across the bed, his wrists are still locked up in the small of his back and his knees are tucked up underneath him, raising his perfectly shaped arse, high and inviting.
The other man always wants to fuck his arse. And I'm not surprised. I can think of no better receptacle for a cock than my husband's arse. It was built to be fucked.
The other man groans as he enters him. And so does my husband. And so I. My fingers are working on my clit and I'm so close. But I don't want to come yet. I don't want to miss anything.
The other man's shoulders shine with sweat. He reaches round and between my husband's legs to find the cock that I know so well, and that I know must be aching with need by now.
We're all going to come. The other man, pumping and grinding into my husband's beautiful arse. My husband himself, tied up and helpless, fucked and wanked into a place where all he can do is thrust his arse higher in the air as he wordlessly begs for more, harder. And me, so close out in the apple tree I can barely look at them anymore.
And then we all do.
A little scant recovery time later and I slide down the apple tree, landing easily in the slightly damp grass. As I head for the gate, I'm sorry it's over, but I'm content nonetheless.
Because I know there will be other times like this. The apple tree and I will meet again. Because there are always other men. And other nights when the side gate will be left unbolted and the bedroom curtains will be left open. And, just before he comes, he'll wink into the dark.
Mathilde Madden is a British author of erotica. She tends to deal with darker themes and stories with a twist. In Wicked Words 10: The Best of Wicked Words, Black Lace editor Kerri Sharp said: "Mathilde Madden's stunning stories 'You Spoil Me' and 'Wheels on Fire' go bravely into darker areas of the erotic imagination than most people are comfortable with, but with a writing style that is eloquent, understated and mature." She has published a number of erotic short stories and her first novel, Peep Show (US link), published by Black Lace, will be available in January 2005. Amazon UK link: Peep Show