Liberation

Emily told me that John came home on Sunday morning but that Kim didn't let him in the house. They talked quietly and calmly but on the doorstep. Kim told John that that she needed some space and time to think. John wanted to talk inside but Kim refused.

I called Kim mid-morning, not letting on that I knew what had happened after I left on Saturday. I told her how much I had enjoyed our time together on Saturday and asked whether we could we meet for Sunday lunch. I suggested the pub where we had our first kiss and more. After a bit of hesitation she agreed.

I listened attentively to Kim, sympathising and agreeing with everything she said. Sometimes she would ask me what I thought. I responded, as I usually do, by paraphrasing something that she had said earlier. Inevitably, we got to the point where Kim asked whether I thought she should 'leave' John. I responded by asking her what she thought would make her happiest in the long-term.

And in that that moment she decided. Not an ephemeral, superficial decision. Her face, her body language and her eyes told me that is was deep, visceral, committed decision. My games had now liberated both mother and daughter. It wasn't my plan to do so, because I never had a plan, just some rough ideas, some of which have been realised and others not. Indeed if either or both had fallen pregnant, as I had intended, it may not have been much of a liberation. Such are games with real people as the toys.

Interestingly, Kim never asked me then, during the sex that followed, or even after that, whether she had a future with me. This despite my many mendacious protestations of love, in the past, and her apparently genuine reciprocation. The sex that followed our lunch was raw. I got the sense that she was doing it for herself, not in any needy way, trying to please me, or to ensnare me as a replacement for John. She is no Emily but she has come a very long way from the timorous mouse that I first encountered.

***

On Monday morning, John was suspended from his job. A number of his colleagues had received an email from him. It read as follows:

"You will probably be aware by now that Emily is not my daughter. Now that I know this, I realise what a hot girl she is."

Attached to the email was a picture of Emily in a compromising position with three black guys.

John, of course, denied that he had sent the email, protesting that his account was hacked by someone malicious. He said he had a pretty good idea of who had done it. Alas for John, a subsequent investigation by clever technicians verified that the email originated from his house. Yesterday afternoon, he was fired without notice.

John has only himself to blame. What sort of man is it that invites another man to fuck his wife? What sort of man tells another man of the dark desires he has for his wife? What sort of man is it who revels in his own submission? He has brought this upon himself. I could squash him like a bug beneath my shoe but cannot be bothered to cross the street to do so. I am done with him now.