Alexander and Mary attended the most fashionable parties. This time, they went to a ball hosted by a rich newspaper baron. They wore clothing that they had purchased from a voguish store right in the heart of the buzzing city. Alexander wore a spotless white Tuxedo jacket with a black bowtie, and Mary wore a dark blue ballgown that made her look like a character right out of a fairy tale.

Alexander and Mary waltzed while the other couples watched with a mixture of envy and admiration. Their slow dancing was impeccable. The layered crystal chandelier in the room resembling an inverted cake, and the other lights brightly lit up the room, and the paintings on the wall, but the focus was on the couple gently swaying. Mary smiled coquettishly at the other younger men who passed them by, and Alexander with his handlebar mustache watched the women in their gowns with the highest amour propre.

Though Alexander and Mary teased the other couples, they were devoted to each other. So dedicated that they discussed everything. They laid bare their secrets to each other. They lived out their fascinations together. Now, Mary loved handbags, especially Birkin Bags, and Alexander not only bought them for her but enjoyed them as much as she did. Alexander, on the other hand, loved Mayan Sicars, and Mary smoked them with him, savoring them as much as he did.

“He looks like the right one,” Mary said to Alexander as they sampled the gorgeous buffet.

“Will he agree though?”

“I’m sure he will darling. Might I add that you look dashing.”

“Thank you kindly, dear,” Alexander said, and bit into the Wagyu beef.

The party ended, and Alexander and Mary got into their Rolls Royce. A younger gentleman accompanied them. The car wound through the streets while the gentle glow of dawn fell softly upon the landscape. Everything looked colored a shade of pink, and Alexander felt a tinge of sadness like one often does when one confronts nature during the early hours of the morning. As they crossed a bridge upon tranquil waters, a silence enveloped the three of them. Mary thought of being married to Alexander for thirteen years, and about how beautiful it was. They never quarreled. They never hated one another. There was a sense of quietude that had made the thirteen years bliss. Even the excitement always became a soft breeze, caressing them and telling them that they were souls destined for each other.

They lived in a beautiful Bungalow that led to the sea. It had roofs that were colored deep red and beige outer walls. Purple Bougainvillea flowers studded these walls. A butler ushered the three in, and they invited the guest to the bedroom. It was where they took their tea. The maid brought in cups of Earl Grey and biscuits, and the three settled down on couches. Alexander took the one facing the bed, and let his wife sit with their acquaintance, on another. Alexander was never a possessive man. He was a kind-hearted, beautiful soul who delighted in the simple joys of life like watching another man bone his wife.

He smiled as Mary and her acquaintance tore their clothes off like rabid dogs biting each other. He then slowly slid his pants down and sat with his erect shaft. The acquaintance bent Mary over the side of the bed and proceeded to savagely thrust.

“You like this, you old cuckold bastard!” He screamed

“Yes, sir. I do. Anything she enjoys, I do too,” Alexander replied with a broad grin.

“Oh, Alexander! Oh, Alexander! I love you! I love you!” Mary screamed.

“I love you too, darling. You should always know that,” Alexander said with tears in his eyes.

An intense joy overwhelmed Alexander. It was as blissful as watching dew collect on leaves and as sad as hopelessness. He laughed, and he sobbed uncontrollably.

“Ready dear?” He asked Mary.

“Ready! Now! Now!” She yelled.

Alexander orgasmed, and it was everything he wanted it to be. It was poignant, and cut through his heart like a razor, but it was also as ecstatic as a firecracker bursting. He looked up at the ceiling, unable to mouth anything except monosyllabic utterances.

He looked at his wife, lying down with no energy left, and smiled.

“Thirteen years and still going strong,” he said to himself.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2019)

2 thoughts on “ Thirteen years ”

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