F4: Fissures in the Rock

(Author's note: This story is an entry into FAWC (Friendly Anonymous Writing Challenge), a collaborative competition among Lit authors. FAWC is not an official contest sponsored by Literotica, and there are no prizes given to the winner. This FAWC was based around the theme of music, with four songs given to choose from. The song that inspired this story was "Written in Rock" by Rick Springfield.)

* * * *

Ethan drove past the house three times before there was any sign of life there to be seen. He had thought before about what might be happening at this hour behind that first window to the left, but he refused to go there this morning.

He himself was up to catch the emerging of the desert landscape from pitch dark to murky to the glittering of the first rays of the rising sun. He liked to see the sun's first beams creep over the façades of the east-facing rambling, one-story houses on the street he knew so well. The house he was surveilling faced east and was covered in an ochre stucco, with bougainvillea running up the sides at either end, so it greeted the sun with a Mediterranean smile. They had honeymooned in the Greek isles, so Ethan always smiled when he saw the sun first hit the house. Although these days the smile faded quickly.

On the fourth turnabout, lights were on in the house, so he parked across the street. Not directly across the street. He didn't want to be obvious. But in front of the Miller's house, which had been vacant for months, Brad Miller having been carried out of the house feet first on a gurney with a sheet over his head and his wife, Madge, having checked herself into a full-service retirement home down in Tucson just as quickly as she could thereafter.

He was in it for the long haul, armed with a jumbo cup of 7-Eleven java and two packs of cigarettes—Marlboros—although he had no idea really what "it" was and was thoroughly depressed by the thought of a "long haul." He didn't know why he continued coming here at all. The law office business was booming and he could think of nothing else than that while he was at work. And then after work, well, then he was in such heaven that there was nothing but personal pleasure to think about. So, why on so many mornings did he get up in the middle of the night and subject himself to this hell?

He would have thought more on that, but one of the garage doors on the house was raising and he could see Chris entering the garage from the house. Very much ready for work—in a law office much the same as his. All suited out and carrying a brief case and the newspaper—and steeping cup of joe. Probably a lot tastier than what Ethan was drinking. As the Lexus SC coupe pulled out of the garage, Ethan could see the BMW SUV resting on the other side of the garage. He'd bought that for her on their tenth anniversary. At least she hadn't pitched that out.

Not long after that one of his questions on why he did this was answered. The front door burst open and Evan and Grace ejected themselves, both struggling with backpacks nearly as heavy as they were, both chattering and laughing, propelled from house to sidewalk as if rockets, and headed down toward the corner to the school bus stop. Her lawyer had made a big to do over how devastating this all was for the children, especially considering the circumstances—that the children would be traumatized for years. Well, the children didn't look all that traumatized to Ethan, and he wondered what, if anything, that lawyer had to say about the circumstances that followed so quickly on the heels of the divorce—Gail's circumstances. How that should affect the children.

But as far as he could see, and what he could grill out of them when he had them on visitation, it hadn't affected them all that much. Well, children these days were exposed to and able to adjust to a lot more than children did when he was growing up.

Ethan wasn't all that upset with the tack the lawyer had taken. Under normal circumstances, she had used the strongest case available, and she hadn't insisted on making a public display of it. Ethan would have done the same in court himself. He was too occupied with resenting that lawyer for other reasons.

Gail was standing in the doorway, in a housecoat, but still looking good. Looking great, actually. The new pixie haircut she was wearing became her. If she had any gray yet, it was well conditioned away. And still the dynamite figure, discernible even inside the formless flowered housecoat. The dramatic change from Ethan to Chris hadn't prompted her to let herself go. In fact, somewhat to Ethan's chagrin, she looked younger than she had when they'd split.

She was sipping coffee from a mug, her eyes glued to the backs of her two children as they bounced along down to the bus stop and remaining on them as they stood down there, chattering and jostling with their peers, all of them texting on cell phones, right through until they got on the bus. One last arm wave to them as they boarded, Grace turning to catch sight of her mother to wave back, Evan surging ahead, no looking back. Ethan watched too, his eyes following the progress of the bus up the street, past the ochre-colored house across the street, and around the corner. In the moment the bus had been between Ethan and the house, Gail had stepped back into the house and shut the door.

They had been the perfect family. Everyone had said so. A handsome pair. Ethan with a high-paying job. Gail with her successful art shows. Two precious children. The perfect family. Older son, younger daughter. Neither one a bit of a problem; both beautiful children. And smart as whips. Grace the athlete, like her dad, even early on. Evan more dreamy, artistic. Like his mother. The transition for Ethan and Gail from being the darlings of the tennis and golf club set into PTA stalwarts and Saturday morning soccer cheerleaders had been a smooth one.

Just the perfect couple. A rock-solid marriage. You could ask anyone they knew and get that same answer. Then the fissures started. Ethan couldn't keep it in his pants; Gail had gotten bitchy and restless. Success had gotten to Ethan, inviting in cockiness and risk. Gail sometimes could be shrill. One fissure led to another—not all of them Ethan based. But certainly the first chip into the rock was Ethan's. And it had been a doozy.

He went over this in his mind—each morning he sat out here, he played it all in his mind. That first chip, the opening fissures, the poof of dust as the rock-solid marriage disintegrated around them. He didn't know why he did this, coming out here to dig at the fissures. Life was still good for him. It was great. The job was cooking along. The sex couldn't get any better. Still.

He would have sunk into his introspection if another reason he came out here to sit and watch didn't blossom before his eyes. This time she left the blinds open—the blinds to the bedroom in the house that fronted on the street. The bedroom in the left front of the building as seen from the street—the one with a large picture window that they'd always kept carefully covered, as the most rock-hard aspect of their marriage had been how much they had enjoyed sex and how inventive they had been in performing it in that bedroom.

She stood almost directly in front of the bedroom window and pulled the housecoat over her head. He took his breath in with a ragged gasp and would have spilled his coffee if the cup wasn't already half empty. She was only wearing panties under the housecoat, and even those she stripped off. Her breasts were firm, still. Maybe even more firm now. Had she had work done? And she'd shaved her V. Kept the black, curly, silky hair but trimmed it to an exclamation point pointed downward. She'd done that for Chris? She'd never done that for Ethan. But then Ethan laughed. Now he not only tamed his bush for Jordan; he also shaved his chest and pits. He'd never even thought of doing that for Gail. They had reveled in their natural endowments—or, at least, had told each other they did.

But then, it was quite evident that they both had hidden vital issues from each other when it came to sex.

Standing, backlit, looking out into the world, Gail slowly pulled on sheer panties and a bra. Ethan found himself looking up and down the street, guiltily. Revolving his head to see if anyone else but he was getting this show. Feeling protective, even while he himself had gone hard as a rock. But no one else appeared to be up and about yet. Most on the street were retirees, cashing in on lucrative careers, and a good many of them were off on cruise ships this time of year.

The show was his alone. He unzipped himself with his free hand and released his hard cock. But no sooner had he started with himself than the shades were drawn. It had already started, though. A man can't just stop these urges on a dime. He put the cup in the cup holder, laid his head back on the headrest, closed his eyes to dredge up earlier times—times when the family was a rock—when he could be rock hard with Gail right there for him—and began to stroke himself.

His cell phone buzzed. He almost let it go, not wanting anything to spoil the moment, but it was insistent.

"Well, are you going to come inside or not?" The voice coming out of the little plastic container was all too familiar.

* * * *

He was having trouble resisting his impulses as he sat at the kitchen table, watching her. Her back was to him as she bent over the kitchen sink, filling a carafe for fresh coffee. Bent over the sink, her buttocks sticking out. Mocking him, whether she meant to be doing it or not. It was driving him mad. The flare of her hips, her plump buttocks, her thin waist. Those three little moles, set in a triangle just under her right shoulder blade. The other mole on her neck below her left earlobe, now clearly visible with her hair in this pixie cut. Many had been the night that he had tongued that mole as he was moving inside her.

Then he wasn't resisting anymore. He rose from the kitchen table and was behind her in two steps, embracing her from behind, suspending her there in a slight bend over the kitchen sink.

She gave him a deep-throated laugh. It incensed him. The clasp of the bra was undone without him even realizing he had done it, and his hands were cupping her breasts. Weighing them, speculating again on whether she'd had them augmented. It certainly seemed so. On what he was paying her? And all for Chris?

A flash of anger and frustration is still a flame, and he was ablaze. He was hard, and there was no way, as closely as he was holding her, that she didn't know that. The slight moan and seeing her set the carafe down in the sink told him that. It also told him that any pretenses of fixing coffee, bustling around with domestication a barrier between them, were gone.

She reached back with a hand and ran her fingers down the line of his erection through the material of his trousers. One of his hands slid down her belly, below the waistband of her panties, and he ran his fingers through her trimmed bush, searching for, and finding, her clit with the pad of his forefinger. She gave a little lurch and a groan.

He heard his zipper being lowered, felt the freeing of his cock. He was kissing the back of her head and mewing as he moved his hips against her, swaying forward and backward, on the edge of indecision on how much farther this could go.

"If you're going to do it, do it. It's what you came for," she said in what he'd grown to know was her tired, less-than-interested voice.

It almost cold cocked him. He almost pulled away from her. This was old shit. This was how she had teased and manipulated him before. This was a lot of why he'd been weakened and started giving it at the office.

She had grasped his cock, though, and was stroking it, stoking the flame.

"Just don't rip the panties, please. They cost me $20."

Sweet and sour, flames and cold water. Now he was remembering. Cost her $20 or cost Chris $20? Again, he started to back off, but she wouldn't relinquish the cock, and her other hand was trapping the hand he was cupping a breast with.

"Do it, baby. Fuck me," she whispered.

He got her panties pushed down on her thighs, and was inside her, pumping her from behind. The fingers of one hand worked her clit and pressed the root of his cock to maintain the angle he wanted. The other hand squeezed her breasts, his fingers working her nipples. His face was buried into her neck, his tongue licking that familiar mole.

She made all the right sounds, all the right countermoves, once they were saddled in the old familiar fit. And when he ejaculated, she was right there with him with her orgasm. They had gotten this natural mating act down pat years ago, and once on the bicycle . . .

They sat, across from each other at the kitchen table afterward, the coffee finally made, each with a steaming cup of it, both looking around everywhere in the kitchen but at each other.

"You painted the kitchen."

"Chris didn't like the old color."

"The kids doing OK at school?"

"Yes, as always, but looking forward to summer. Chris is sending Grace to a soccer clinic and Evan to computer camp for advanced graphics."

"I would have paid for that. All you needed do was—"

"Chris wanted to do it."

Then, after a long, uncomfortable—for both of them—pause. "It was good for you, Gail . . . wasn't it?"

"Life is good, yes."

"No, I mean this . . . just now . . . at the sink."

"Yes, Ethan, it was good. You were always good. That's why I left the blinds up this morning . . . why I called you on your cell phone . . . in your car. You were always good, and I was in the mood for it. Thought if we did it this morning, I wouldn't see you out there on Friday mornings anymore."

"So, you've seen me out there before?"

"Nearly every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning for some time, yes."

"Tell me, was it good enough? You say you wanted me to come in, that you were in the mood. You getting tired of what Chris can give you?"

"I said it was good. Not great."

"I can do great."

"You can certainly try."

* * * *

He fucked her missionary style, with her butt on the foot of the bed and him crouched between her thighs and holding her legs spread wide and raised with fists grasping her ankles. With long experimentation, this had become their "taking it all" position. This gave him just the right angle that, with her legs spread wide, he could give her all of the dick. He had a lot to give, and he wanted to give it all to her today.

He still couldn't believe she'd let all of this go. And maybe that was another reason he'd been showing up here mornings. He was narcissistic enough not to be able to accept she'd made the choice she had. She hadn't fought to keep him. She'd just let him slip away.

She bucked with him, talked dirty to him, begged him for more and deeper and longer—and another explosion . . . or two . . . or three. It was just like old times. Times when all they had to think about was the now, the fuck, the pleasure, the "let loose" of it. When all the rest of that rock disintegrating to dust wasn't intruding.

Afterward she sat against the headboard, curled into herself, yoga style. Still flexible after all these years. He sat on the edge of the bed, next to the nightstand, feet flat on the floor and hunched over his thighs, He had extracted a package of cigarettes from the nightstand. Just like old times. This was his side of the bed. But not really like old times. These were not his brand of cigarettes. Unless Gail had changed to Virginia Slims, which he highly doubted, they weren't hers either. Must be Chris', he thought. This must be Chris' side of the bed now.

"Was it great that time?" he asked. Speaking to the bathroom door on the wall of his side of the bed rather than back at her. "Was that better?"

"It was very good, Ethan, yes. But what is it you want me to say? Do you want me to say that you fuck better than Christina does?"

"Yeah . . . I guess. I still can't understand what it is that she does to you . . . for you." Christina Landon had been Gail's divorce attorney. Ethan had no idea at what point in the process Gail had turned to her. And, yes, it had torn him up inside.

"You don't need to know what we do. You only need to know this is her bed now. And, yes, that she does it better than you do."

"I don't see how she—"

"She does it better because she isn't a man. At the time, it was important that I not be touched by a man. You'll have to forgive me if I haven't had time to have a change of heart on that."

"Ah, that mumbo jumbo. You going to a shrink and all that. I actually thought it was Gifford, your shrink, you'd turned to."

Gail laughed that low, throaty laugh she had, the one that sounded almost contemptuous. "I wasn't having a Freudian week when I took up with Christina. I just knew she wasn't . . . you . . . that she wasn't any man. Not like the choice you made. Jordan. A law clerk, black, young . . . and a man."

After a long pause. "Is that what it was then, Gail? Paying me back in kind? Chris is a lawyer, and she's young, and she's black—"

"And she's not a man. I don't know, maybe. It doesn't matter now. The kids adore her, she's a good provider, and she gives me great sex. How about Jordan? Are you still with Jordan?"

"Yes."

"Does he still give you good sex—take great sex from you?"

"Yes."

"Better than me?"

Ethan didn't answer that. And because he didn't shoot right back with an answer, he didn't have to. God knew he was still head over hills with Jordan in sex. There were none of those little digs Gail had always gotten in, combined with holding just a bit back. The insinuation that so many fucks equaled the BMW in the garage.

Jordan held nothing back. There were no conditions, no demands, no hints of negotiations when he and Jordan fucked. They had knock-down, drag-out sweaty, all-out sex. All over the apartment. And then they lay in each others' embrace afterward, drinking beer to cool down and laughing and joking. And then they did it again.

But Ethan wasn't thinking about Jordan. He wanted Gail to free him . . . to admit that their rock had been solid, except for that one fissure . . . that fissure that opened up other fissures, a disintegration neither of them could stop, until it was all dust. Not all his fault. Not by a long shot. All gone but the regret of what they had, what a perfect couple, a perfect family they had been. It had meant a lot to him, how the world perceived them. He wanted Gail to say that Christina had been for revenge, not by preference. He didn't care what she actually believed—he just wanted her to say it.

"Well, there's that then," Gail said with a sigh. Neither moved or said anything for a few minutes. When the tension of the silence was broken, it was Gail who spoke. "Well, I won't say you aren't good," she said, coming closer to him on the bed. Running her hands along his back muscles. He'd toned up since . . . then. Jordan was toned too. They probably gymed together. If anything, Ethan was sexier now than he had been before. Touching that tattoo of a stylized world on his right shoulder blade, a world where everything was beautiful and simple, all of the rocks were smoothly rounded, no sign of a chink . . . rock .. . solid hard rock.

She snaked her hand around to his lap and grasped his dick, stroking it to where it too, quickly, was rock solid hard again.

"You want to do it again?" he asked, in a raspy voice. He was looking around for some place to stub out his cigarette. Christina had left an expensive-looking beaded clutch on the nightstand. With a grim little smile, he ground the lighted end of his Virginia Slims cigarette butt into it—and left it there for Christina maybe to find. Christina had been a fissure that wasn't of his making. Or so he told himself.