The Widow

My name is Philip. That much is true, although as you will understand I need to be quite vague about the specifics of this tale. I work as a psychotherapist at a practice in West London. I had been working there for just under a year when a woman came to us presenting with depression. I’ll call her Christina, to protect her identity, although if she ever reads this I’m sure she’ll recognise herself.

After an initial phone consultation, she arrived for her first full appointment one glorious July morning. The moment she walked through the door I knew I was in trouble.

As therapists, it is of course an iron rule that we must never, ever, get involved with our clients, either emotionally or sexually. And I knew, the moment I set eyes on Christina, that that was going to be an issue.

She was an exceptionally beautiful woman. At the time I estimated her age to be about thirty, the same as me, although in point of fact she was thirty-four. She had short dark hair and was tanned to a lovely caramel brown, and her black dress, though modest, was impeccably cut to accentuate her figure. She was wearing no jewellery apart from tiny gold ear-studs, and while I couldn’t put a name to her perfume it was something expensive. When she removed her sunglasses, her eyes were a deep and soulful brown. I was lost already.

But I was a professional with a job to do. After getting her permission to record the session, which we always do, I invited her to give me some background. She sat quietly for a moment with downcast eyes, and then began to speak in a low subdued voice that the microphone was barely able to pick up.

“My husband died a little over a year ago.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“He left me a very wealthy woman. I have a house in London, another in Lisbon, and apartments in New York and Paris. My husband had considerable interests in the luxury hotel business, so I also have suites available in about thirty cities around the world. He had other interests — commercial property, shipping — but hotels were what he loved. Materially, I have absolutely nothing to worry about.

“His death was quite sudden and unexpected; his heart. He was quite a lot older than me and the marriage had been in some trouble for a while. We wanted different things, I think. He wanted me to show off to his friends, really, as if I were a yacht or a super-car. And we -.” She stopped.

“Go on.”

“We had lost interest in one another. Sexually, I mean.”

“I see. Did you remain faithful to one another?”

“Yes. I mean, I can’t be completely sure about him, but I think so. If I had taken a lover it would have wounded him terribly, and I didn’t want to do that. After all, he treated me with great kindness. I feel guilty that I wasn’t with him when he died — he was on a business trip to Canada. It was only supposed to last two or three days.”

“Do you feel that you don’t deserve your wealth?”

“In a way,” she said. “I didn’t marry him for his money, you know.”

“Why did you, then?”

She looked up sharply. “Because I loved him.”

“Of course. Go on.”

“His death was a terrible shock. It took me a long time to understand what was happening with the legal side. There were lots of meetings where I wasn’t really taking much in. I was never much involved in the business side of his life. I didn’t want to be. I was already quite comfortable when we met; money has never really interested me. I wasn’t looking for more than I had.”

“But now you have it.”

“And I don’t know what to do.”

All the time she was talking, in my mind I was undressing her. I wondered if that caramel tan was continuous over her whole body. I imagined how that that exquisite skin might feel next to mine, warm and silken. I wanted to touch her, to tease her, to make her lose control. I wanted to make her beg and give her what she was begging for. I wanted to smell that perfume mingled with her sweat and the feral scent of her arousal. I wanted to astonish and delight her, to satisfy her as no lover had ever done before.

In short, I wanted to fuck her until she couldn’t take any more.

But of course I gave no sign of any of this. Instead we spoke about her family background, which contained nothing unusual. Her parents were both dead, and had left her substantial property in the UK and abroad. She had an older sister living in Tuscany, but they weren’t close. There had been no children from the marriage – “I can’t,” she said matter-of-factly.

I closed the session by asking her to keep a written record of her emotional state over the following week and to bring it with her to out next appointment, which she seemed happy enough to do. When she closed the door behind her I felt my heart still pounding.

The second session was worse, if anything. Again she wore black, although this time her dress revealed enough cleavage to whet my appetite. Not that I needed the encouragement.

We went through her journal and discussed her feelings of insecurity and black self-loathing and where they might have come from. She described in some detail how she lost her virginity while still a schoolgirl in Switzerland, and how it had made her feel about herself and her body. I wished that I had been her lover, and had made a better fist of it than the clumsy Swiss boy who had had that honour.

She talked about her sleepless nights, and I imagined her drowsing in my arms, drugged by sexual satiety.

I asked if she had had any relationships since her husband died. She shook her head.

“I couldn’t imagine giving myself to another man,” she said.

“Perhaps that’s part of the problem.”

“Do you think so?”

“Maybe you should think about it.”

She didn’t look convinced.

Afterwards I went straight to my colleague Sue, who has always been something of a mentor to me, and confessed my feelings for Christina.

“It happens more often than you’d think,” she said. “Therapy can be a powerful and intimate connection.”

“This has nothing to do with therapy. This is lust.”

“Then you’d better learn to control yourself, hadn’t you? It’s part of the job, Phil. Deal with it.”

“I’d be much more comfortable if you’d take her on as your client.”

“I’m sure you would. That’s exactly why I won’t do it. You’ll learn from this.”

I wasn’t convinced.

As it happened, my willpower wasn’t put to the test. Christina came into the office and cancelled her treatment, leaving a sealed envelope addressed to me at reception. The contents startled me.

Dear Philip,

I hope you won’t take my decision to cancel our sessions as any reflection on yourself or your competence. They have actually been extremely helpful, more than you may ever realise.

I would very much like to see you in a non-professional capacity. This coming Saturday I shall be having coffee in Mario’s in Knightsbridge from 10 am and you are very welcome to join me there.

If you do not come, I shall of course respect your decision.

Yours,

C

I didn’t show this note to Sue, although I ought to have done. I didn’t even mention its existence. We discussed possible reasons for her cancellation, of course. Many of our clients were bored rich people with nothing much wrong with them, and they came and went on a whim. I convinced Sue that Christina was just another one of those.

Of course I had to go. It might or not be ethical, but I was going to do it anyway.

She was waiting for me as promised, wearing her customary black, but this time something cut very low at the front and very high at the side. And she smiled at me: I had not seen her smile once. Her smile was as perfect as the rest of her.

“I’m so glad you decided to come,” she said.

“You’re looking well.”

“I feel so much better, thanks to you.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” I ordered an espresso with water on the side.

“I think I know what I need now,” she said.

“That’s good.”

“I need a man to make love to me. I want that man to be you.” She held up her hand to silence my objections. “Of course it wasn’t possible when I was your client. That’s why I ended our professional relationship.”

“Why me?”

“Why not you?”

“Well, surely there are, you know, professionals…”

“Oh, my girlfriends all have their recommendations; if all I wanted was sex, I have all the names and numbers I need. I’m talking about making love. There’s a difference, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

“What makes you so sure that’s the answer?”

“Because I need to be validated as a woman. To be a person, not just an accessory. And I know you want me,” she added, in a lower voice. “You tried to hide it, but it was very obvious.”

My coffee arrived. I used it to conceal my speechlessness.

She took a card from her handbag. “I thought about inviting you to my house, but that holds too many memories. Neutral ground might be better, don’t you think? This is the address of a hotel where I would like you to meet me this evening. The staff are very discreet; that’s what we pay them for. I thought we could have dinner in my suite.”

“That sounds great,” I said woodenly.

“I travel under the name of Mrs Rose. Ask for that name at the desk.”

“Okay.”

The hotel was a converted town house in Kensington. Discreetly opulent, it sat in a quiet square a little apart from the main thoroughfares, with little to distinguish it from its neighbours apart from a small brass plate.

Wearing my one suit and with a small overnight bag I looked and felt out of place, but apparently “Mrs Rose” were the magic words. Before I knew it, I was in her suite on the top floor of the building, and Christina was stepping forward to greet me.

She looked sensational in a white evening gown picked out in gold that contrasted dramatically with her tan. Around her throat was a white diamond collar that probably cost more than my house.

We ate lobsters with champagne, served by silent waiters who came and went like ghosts. They left us at last with coffee and balloons of Napoleon brandy.

“No last-minute jitters?” she enquired.

“No.”

“Then take me to bed.”

She led me into the bedroom, which was dominated by a sumptuous four-poster bed, an ocean of white satin. We stood there hesitating for a moment. I had the feeling that I was on the brink of an abyss. And then she said: “Kiss me, Philip.”

Once she was in my arms everything was much better. Her lips were soft and sweet and welcoming. Her gown went a long way down at the back and my hands had full liberty to stray. I eased the straps from her shoulders even as she unknotted my tie and slipped it off.

As soon as those glorious breasts were free I cupped them gratefully. Christina was unbuttoning my shirt, her lips still glued to mine. She made a soft sound of longing in my mouth. The gown fell to her waist, then to the floor. She kicked off her satin slippers.

I wanted her at that moment as I have never wanted any woman, before or since.

While I finished undressing she waited for me on the bed, naked except for that diamond collar and a white lacy confection that concealed the final secret. When I joined her there, she embraced me, her huge eyes gazing into mine.

“Make me whole,” she whispered.

We kissed. I slid my fingers into the waistband of her knickers and eased them off. Her pubic hair was trimmed into a neat heart, perfectly framing her pink and pouting sex. The caramel tan was indeed continuous, just the faintest shade paler where a bikini would have covered her. The contrast with the rich cream of the counterpane was wonderful.

“You’re so beautiful,” I murmured. “You have the deepest, loveliest eyes. Your face is so elegant” – I caressed her cheek – “your mouth is so kissable.” I kissed it, just to make my point. “Your breasts are incredible. Perfect size, perfect shape. And so sweet.”

When I used my mouth on her nipples, she whimpered softly. Tenderly I drew each one to a firm peak. I kissed my way down her ribs, paying special attention to her navel, until I was face to face with her sex. Christina was breathing hard.

“Your legs are magnificent,” I went on. I ran a finger along her inner thigh and she caught her breath. “And your pussy… is begging to be tasted.”

When the tip of my tongue made the softest possible contact, she groaned loudly.

“Does that feel good?”

“Don’t stop.”

I kept it slow and delicate to begin with, until she was squirming on the bed. Then, still licking steadily up and down, I slid my index finger into her. She gasped. I made it two.

“Oh God,” she moaned.

Rather egotistically, I wanted her to come on my cock and not my tongue, so to her audible regret I withdrew. I moved back up her body.

“This is how sweet you taste,” I said, and kissed her deeply. Then at last I entered her.

I had lingered over the foreplay partly because we were both enjoying it but also because I knew I’d never last five minutes once I was in her. Just as I had imagined, she was exquisitely tight.

“It feels so good to be inside you,” I whispered. “You’re like silk.”

Her nails were digging into my shoulders, almost painfully. There was nothing for it: I had to start moving.

I tried to keep it slow and steady, but neither of us could stand it for long. She needed me to finish her, and I needed to come. I went harder and faster, just hoping I could stay the course.

Christina was moaning continuously now.

“You’re too sexy,” I groaned, “I’ve got to come.”

“Fuck,” she wailed, “I’m there!”

I’m not sure who came first, but there wasn’t much in it. I slid off her, fighting for breath.

“God, I needed that,” she sighed.

We lay together for a while, recovering.

“Do you feel like a woman yet?”

“Maybe.” She smiled. “Or maybe I need a little more convincing.”

I propped myself up to get a better view of her. She truly was an extraordinarily beautiful woman. The soft evening light picked out glimmers of sweat on her brow, between her breasts.

“From the moment I saw you,” I said, “I wanted to see you naked.”

“I hope you aren’t disappointed.”

“Far from it. Although of course you aren’t quite naked.” I touched her diamond collar.

Christina reached behind her neck, unclasped it and put it aside. “There. Is that better?”

“Much better.”

I kissed her and we lay on our sides facing one another, tantalisingly apart. She reached down and held my cock gently between her fingers and I stroked her shoulder lightly.

“You’re hardly touching me,” she murmured, “and I’m so turned on.”

I was soon responding to her caresses. Without letting go, Christina eased me onto my back and straddled me, her superb breasts nuzzled against my chest. We both groaned as she guided me into her, just the tip to begin with, and again as she drove down and took me completely.

“You have a fantastic cock,” she said. “It feels so good inside me. Stretching me.” She began to rock back and forth. “You fill me up.”

I moved my hands across her shoulders, down her back, and finally to her hips. Anchoring myself there, I began to push up into her in time with her lazy undulating motions. She groaned into my mouth. Suddenly everything became very urgent. She was panting.

“I don’t — believe it… You’re — making me — come — again — oh God, I — I’m coming…”

I felt her body shudder as she cried out and collapsed onto me. She took her time recovering.

“That was incredible. I think it was the fastest ever.”

“No need to rush. We’ve got all night.”

Christina kissed me deeply. Still in her to the hilt, I rolled us over and she wrapped her legs around me in a tight embrace.

“Fuck, you’re in so deep. It feels amazing.”

I felt completely in control. Somehow I knew that I could make this gorgeous woman come again. She wanted it, she needed it, and I was going to give it to her.

I began to fuck her with long, slow, easy strokes, pulling almost all the way out and pushing back all the way home. In this position she was barely able to move, but she let me know how good it felt with deep appreciative moans. Our bodies were slick with sweat.

“Does it feel good?”

“Oh God. So good.”

“Are you going to come again?”

“Just don’t stop.”

“You’re so sexy when you come.”

Her head was thrashing from side to side. She used her nails on me mercilessly. I went harder, faster, deeper, and she completely lost control. She sobbed loudly as I drove her over the edge.

“Too much,” she gasped. “Christ, I’ll never walk again.”

She slumped, beautifully relaxed, her fingers no longer clawing but caressing. Her breathing slowed.

“You animal. You’re still hard.” She used her inner muscles to squeeze my cock, making me gasp. “You like that?”

“It’s fabulous.”

“Come in me.” She squeezed again, grunting with the effort. “Give me your baby.”

I began to move in her again. I couldn’t stop myself. It felt too good.

“Fill me,” she whispered. “I know you want to. Give to me.”

“Oh God.”

“Yes,” she chanted, “yes, yes, yes…”

“I’m going to come any second.”

“Do it!”

I groaned her name loudly as I emptied my balls in her.

“My God,” she purred, “I felt that.”

By this time it was getting properly dark and cooling off, so we slipped under the covers. In a few minutes we were both asleep.

At some point in the small hours, I woke to find that Christina lying on her side with her back pressed against me. I wasn’t sure if she was awake or asleep, or even if this was a dream or reality. For a while I lay there just enjoying the warmth and smoothness of her skin, her perfume. Very gently I kissed the back of her neck and she made a tiny sound deep in her throat.

I kissed the tender skin below her ear and she pushed her rump against my belly. Even though I still wasn’t sure if she was sleeping or not, it seemed like an invitation. Cautiously I ran my fingers along her flank. She reached back and took my hand and placed it on her breast. Clearly she was now awake.

I spent some time enjoying the texture and weight of it, smoothing and softly squeezing it, until she was sighing with pleasure. Her fingers were on my hardening cock, returning the favour. She had an exquisite touch. After a few minutes of this she rolled onto her front and I followed her. She spread her thighs and guided me in.

Christina gasped as I nudged in, just the tip, and then as I thrust all the way home she made a low primal sound, deep in her throat, the most erotic sound I have ever heard, pure animal desire. It felt as if I had been admitted to her inmost sexual core, a private and exclusive kingdom, connected to her in a more intimate way than just sex.

As I made love to her I swear I could feel her pleasure, like a burning light deep inside her body. With each push inward it glowed a little brighter, with each withdrawal it faded a little, but stronger and brighter it grew until she could barely contain it, and at last the fire had to spill out and flood her and she groaned in bliss. I felt her shudder and relax, heard her one last long sigh of satisfaction, and it was done.

Neither of us had said a word.

I rose early in the morning, as I always do. Returning from the bathroom, I stood and gazed at her as she lay sleeping, tousled and utterly relaxed, wearing nothing but a half-smile; very much the cat that got the cream. I was wondering whether or not to rejoin her on the bed when she opened her eyes.

“Good morning,” she said. “Aren’t you cold out there?”

She turned back the covers, inviting me back in: a woman no longer encumbered by shame, guilt, or grief, but free to be herself. It wasn’t a cure I could ever have prescribed, but it was clear that it had worked for her.

Of course I accepted her invitation.

She took my face in her hands, kissed me tenderly, and said: “Thank you for the most incredible night of my life.”