A Life Unknown

Authors note: What follows is a work of fiction based on real-life events. It is totally the product of the author's imagination. Where real people are referred to, it is for the purpose of telling a story and does not purport to portray their real actions, beliefs, or personalities.

All protagonists in this story are over eighteen years in age.

Whilst the first four parts of this series were published in the romance category, the fifth was published in erotic couplings and whilst this story contains elements of voyeurism and group sex it belongs best in the erotic couplings category.

Please bear in mind that this a story and whilst it has erotic content this is not a simple stroker. If that is what you want there are many excellent offerings elsewhere on this site.

Please comment and score. Any constructive criticism, positive or negative, is welcome. Far too few folk comment or score.

As always, any errors in editing are mine and mine alone, and I apologise for them in advance.

As I often do, I have included endnotes to clarify and expand some of the details included in the text of the story. You don't have to read them if you don't want to.

A Life Unknown ( Part 6 )

A Life Unknown ( Part 6 )

What do you do when your betrothed lover asks you if you have been sleeping with someone else, and you have?

As I lay in bed with Lionel that morning, the answer was simple. I told him the truth. I could have lied to him, I suppose, but that would have been both dishonest and stupid, and I was neither. Lionel knew that I would not have gone that long without sex if I had a choice, and denying my affair with Charlie would not allay his suspicions that something had happened. It would only make him distrust me and damage our relationship.

Besides, although I liked Lionel. he needed me more than I needed him. I wasn't married to him yet, I hadn't promised to love, honour, and obey him yet. and I hadn't promised him fidelity. In short, I hadn't done anything wrong and I certainly hadn't been unfaithful.

So, the truth it was.

I wasn't looking at Lionel when I told him. That would have made it more important than it was. I was on my back, looking at the ceiling.

"Of course I fucked someone else, Lionel. You know me too well. I like the good things in life, and sex is one of them."

"And was it good?" he asked.

There was something about the way he asked that suggested an overeagerness to know the answer, and for a moment, I considered punishing his inquisitiveness and telling him it was wonderful, but then I had a change of heart.

"He was a virgin. Very enthusiastic with no finesse," I lied.

There seemed little point to making him more unhappy than was necessary.

"Do you still want to marry me?" I continued.

He didn't hesitate.

"You know I do. I can't help myself loving you, even though I know your nature, Victoria."

This seemed a good time as any to set the rules - my rules.

"I can't promise fidelity, Lionel, but I will promise you loyalty and discretion."

"Thank you."

"And the boy T slept with is three thousand miles away."

That is when he surprised me.

"Tell me about him."

"You're not annoyed?"

"Should I be?"

"Or Jealous?"

"Should I be? "

"Well, most men would be both annoyed and Jealous. Why would you want to know?"

He took my hand and placed it on his pecker.

"It interests me," and as he spoke, he began to rapidly harden." Excites me even," he added.

I rolled towards him.

"How long have we been fucking, Lionel?"

"A long time."

"And only now you're telling me the thought of me fucking another man excites you?"

"I wasn't about to marry you, and I thought you'd think me Whacky."

I gripped his foreskin with my fingers and slowly drew it back and forth.

"Not whacky, Lionel, just interesting. Would you like me to tell you what I got up to then?"

"Oh, Please," he whispered.

I threw the bedspread to the floor, knelt beside him where I could watch his face and continued to jerk his rigid shaft.

"In detail." I asked.

"Yes, yes."

"You want to know exactly what he did to me?" I asked, and now his penis was rock hard, straining in my palm.

"Oh, yes!"

"He had the biggest cock I've ever seen or felt. It was a monster - seven inches of thick uncircumcised cock, and when he stuck it in me, it made me feel so fucking full. Would you like me to show you how I rode him and how he made me squeal?"

"Ohhhhh!"

As I continued to stroke his cock, I reached between my legs, found my clitoris, and began to frig myself. His ardour was infectious and I was already wet, and very ready for his cock. I straddled him, reached behind myself, positioned his penis-head between my lips, and slowly lowered myself onto him.

He stared up at me expectantly and I continued to talk.

"He stretched me tight,..... so tight,..... and then I fucked him,...... Just like this," and I started to lower myself up and down on Lionel.

He, in turn, began to drive himself up and into me. For a short while, I was silent as I took my pleasure and he took his, but then I began to talk again.

"He fucked me every which way. but doggy was the best, He was so deep inside me when I came."

"Oh, fuck."

I picked up the pace, and rocked rapidly backwards and forward, grinding myself against him.

"You'd like to watch him fucking me, wouldn't you Lionel?"

"Oh, fuck yes, Oh, fuck yes."

"You'd like to watch him kneel behind me and fuck my cunt? "

My breasts were swinging violently from side to side.

"And see me come on another man's cock?"

My dirty talk and the fantasy I described were too much for him. I felt his body stiffen and heard a loud animalistic groan.

"OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

Deep inside, I felt a liquid warmth as he emptied himself inside of me.

***

It was a little later that we talked. First, there were my immediate needs to be addressed, and I lay om my back with my legs spread wide, and Lional lay between them and licked my pussy. Three orgasms later, I was satisfied and ready to discuss what I had learned that morning.

"How long have you had these thoughts?" I asked.

"As long as I can remember."

"With Mildred too?"

"Yes?"

"And you never mentioned it to her/"

"Of course not."

"Is your fantasy to watch or join in?"

"Watch. Maybe join in."

"Do you want to watch me fuck a woman or a man?"

"He looked at me in amazement."

"Do you like women?"

"I've never tried but I'm interested."

"Oh, fuck, he replied."

***

Now that I was back In America, I had several things I needed to do. There was a marriage to arrange, although I had already decided on a small inconspicuous affair, My savings were squirrelled away in safety deposit boxes all over Boston in gold and gemstones. I had no intention of touching the gold but now I needed to move some of this wealth to wherever I planned to live.

My dream was eventually to move out west but decided to put the plan aside for the moment. For now, I needed to be in the east. Nonetheless, I had no intention of remaining in Boston. Lady Victoria Cameron was about to disappear and become Mrs Lionel Wallace.

Lionel had rented a small house in Boston whilst I was in England, and this is where we stayed whilst I visited several banks over the course of a couple of days. Four days later, we took the train to New York. There, we booked into the Plaza Hotel. The following day, we found new homes for my diamonds and visited a real estate broker to find a house to rent.

Now that I was back in New York, even though I had an ulterior motive, it would have been rude not to see Hans. When I rang him later that day, he seemed delighted to hear from me.

"You told me that I'd never hear from you again, Mrs Dawson. And now, a year later, here we are. To what do I owe the pleasure."

"I need a small favour."

"You only have to ask, but why don't you do it in person. Are you alone?"

"I'm with a friend."

"Are you free for dinner tonight?"

"I have nothing planned."

"Where are you staying?"

"The Plaza."

"You must allow me to entertain you at my new restaurant."

"That would be lovely."

"I will send a car. Billy will pick you up at seven from the hotel foyer if that is convenient?"

"That will be perfect Hans. Thank you."

***

Billy arrived in a black sedan at precisely seven that evening, and suitably attired in evening dress, Lionel and I were driven to our rendezvous in Greenwich Village. South on Fifth Avenue and then west at Washington Square Park, it took us no more than ten minutes to reach our destination, halfway down MacDougal Street.

Billy parked the car at the kerb and led us to a basement door between a violin repair shop and a tobacconist. The door was painted a matt black with a single small red poppy painted in the middle, and above this was a small, inset, brightly polished brass plate.

Billy indicated that we should stop a pace from the door, and them leant forward and tapped once then waited, before tapping twice more in quick succession. Moments later, the brass plate slid back, and a pair of eyes looked out at us.

"Poppies flower in Flanders," said Billy. Then then the plate moved back into place, we heard the lock click, the bolts slide back, and the door opened inwards.

"Enjoy your evening, Mrs Dawson," said Billy, and as we entered, he returned to the car.

Once inside, the door closed behind us, and we found ourselves in a dimly lit vestibule. A young, uniformed doorman took Lionel's hat and directed us towards a wrought iron spiral staircase that descended to a room below.

When we reached the bottom of the ladder, the restaurant's Matre'd was waiting to greet us by name. He was a short, balding man wearing a white dinner jacket, black bow tie, and cummerbund.

"This way please. Mr Baumgartner is expecting you.."

We were at one end of a large dining room. The room was a large well-lit space with a well-stocked bar running along one wall. The floor was made of expensive, dark herringbone wood on which the tables sat. Each table was covered in a crisp, white, well-ironed, linen tablecloth and set with crystal glasses and silver cutlery and, in the middle of each, a long-stemmed vase containing a single black tulip, was placed.

The tables were almost fully occupied by well-heeled couples dressed in evening wear and well-dressed waiters hurried between tables. Above the buzz of gentile conversation, in the corner of the room, a pianist was playing melodies on a grand piano.

We were led past the throng and up some steps to a raised platform overlooking the room. There, at a large round table set for eight people was Hans. He stood to greet us and extended his hand to me in greeting.

"Mrs Dawson, how good to see you. Welcome to Le Coquelicot Noir. "(The Black Poppy)

"Good evening Hans. This is Lionel, my fiancée."

"Good evening, Lionel. You are a lucky man. She is a remarkable woman."

"I know."

Without needing to ask, the sommelier had arrived at the table.

"Champagne, Mr Baumgartner?"

"A bottle of Veuve Clicquot, Pierre," and with that, the tone of the evening was set.

The meal was excellent; Oysters Rockefeller, Duck a l'Orange, and imported French cheeses. Hans sipped his wine slowly. His eyes were everywhere. He was on edge and seemed incapable of relaxing.

"Are you expecting trouble?" I asked.

"I always expect it. Then when it arrives, I won't be caught out."

"Does Lionel how we met?" he asked.

"He knows everything."

"Then he should know that you taught me well. I have my own protection," and he nodded towards two dangerous looking men in lounge suits sitting at a table by the staircase." And I pay off half the New York Police and the Mayor's Office including the Mayor."

He paused.

"When Prohibition is repealed. I'm going to take your advice and go legit. This business is not for the faint hearted. You know that better than most."

"And I have no intention of exposing Lionel to any of it. We intend to live a peaceful, uneventful life."

"I hope we all can but are you watching what is happening in Germany. I fear a warmonger called Adolf Hitler may come to power."

A little later, when Lionel excused himself to visit the toilets. I took my opportunity.

"Now, about that favour that I wanted to ask....." I had forgotten about Hitler, already.

***

I hadn't forgotten what Charlie had told me about Edward Hopper, the artist, and the following morning I visited Frank Rehn's Gallery on Fifth Avenue. It was a pleasant day, and it took me only ten minutes to walk the half mile from the hotel.

The gallery was a warm, intimate place and I was pleased to see several of Edward Hopper's watercolours on display. They were seascapes and a street scene in New York City, and whilst I planned to buy for investment and fun, I found myself drawn to their simplicity and their sense of time standing still.

Rehn was in the backroom when I entered, but when it became clear that I was a serious buyer, he came out to meet me and was able to show me further work that was not on display. He was a small, neat man, and very calm in his manner. Even when I agreed to buy ten works for six thousand dollars, he showed little emotion.

I bought six watercolour seascapes painted around Gloucester, Massachusetts and one of a lighthouse in Maine, and three oil paintings of the streets around Greenwich. I also asked whether it would be possible to meet the artist but was told he was at his summer house with his wife, Josephine, in South Truro on Cape Cod.

"In that case, I would very much like to visit him there," I replied.

"I shall send a telegram to him today, informing him of this sale. He will be pleased, I am sure, and I will convey your wish to meet. His wife returns all correspondence very promptly. I can contact you at the Plaza when the artwork has been packed and ready for delivery and deliver any reply from Mr Hopper."

"Thank you, Mr Rehn. When you have news, I will call on you again."

***

That evening, a brown paper envelope was delivered to our room. I opened it and looked at what was inside; a black and white photograph of a four-masted, steam-powered schooner. It was the SS Glasgow, moored on Rum Row.

"Thank you, Hans," I whispered to myself.

***

Three days later, early on Friday morning, I received a message that Mr Rehn Had received a reply from Cape Cod, and, in the afternoon, I visited the gallery again. There, I was told that Mr Hopper would be happy to meet, although he could not guarantee his exact whereabouts when I arrived in South Truro.

"Do you think Mr Hopper would accept a commission?" I asked.

"It is very unlikely, I would think. Edward Hopper only paints what he wants to paint. Not what others want him to."

"It is a nautical theme, A four masted schooner."

"Then it is possible but still unlikely,....Your only chance is to speak to Jo Hopper first."

***

Two days later we returned to Boston by overnight train, having booked a private drawing room for the journey. We arrived early in the morning in time to catch the early morning train to Provincetown at the tip of Cape Cod.

I had never visited Cape Cod before and was looking forward to the trip itself and not just the prospect of meeting Hopper. As I settled into my upholstered parlor class seat I was filled with anticipation, and I swivelled my chair to face the window and enjoy the view.

At first, it was of warehouses, factories, and tenement buildings, but after Brockton, and its shoe factories, the world changed and the track ran through pine woods and past cranberry bogs.It was after Wareham that the scenery became more coastal with salt marshes and oyster beds, and the smell of the sea through the open window.

At Buzzards Bay, the train crossed the Cape Cod Canal, then ran on through pine forests towards Hyannis where travellers taking the ferry to Martha's Vinyard or Nantucket disembarked. Now, everything grew quieter, with long stretches of pine with the occasional kettle pond visible through the trees. Small stations passed, one by one, until we reached Orleans.

After Orleans, the track ran along the Cape Cod coast. Just before we reached Eastham, on the left, dunes rolled away towards the Atlantic, and on the right, were salt marshes, and the Bay. Now, it felt as if we had left civilisation behind.

The last few stations on the journey were simple clapboard structures built in the middle of nowhere. Wellfleet was a desolate windswept place occupied by birds and oystermen.

Then, ten minutes after we passed North Truro, the train rounded a curve, and I had my first view of Provincetown. Towering above the rooftops, was the tall, grey outline of the Pilgrim Monument.

***

It was after noon when we alighted from the train at Provincetown, and a short taxi journey took us to the Provincetown Inn on the waterfront where we had booked a room. We had not eaten properly since the previous evening- just coffee and sandwiches on the train from Boston - and the first priority was a lunch of Chowder and lobster salad.

Suitably sustained, after lunch I went to our room and showered and changed my clothes whilst Lionel went to find a garage where we could rent a car. When he returned, he was driving a black Ford Model A.

It was a ten-mile, forty-five-minute drive along a sand and gravel track to reach South Truro. The road meandered through sandy hills and scrub pine, passing the occasional farmhouse. At South Truro, just off the road. we found the station and asked the stationmaster if he knew where Edward Hopper lived.

"The tall fella that paints," he said." Go back the way you've come on the Providence Road. About a mile back, the land will open up and you'll see a farmhouse. Just after that there's stand of pines and then a sandy lane on the right that leads toward the water. That'll take you up onto the ridge where you'll find Hopper's House. It's a square building; all on its lonesome. Be careful on the track. The sand is soft in places."

***

It was late afternoon when we reached the Hoppers cottage. It was a faded grey, clapboard structure with weathered, dark wood shingles on the roof, and stood alone amongst the sand dunes. As we approached, the door opened, and a small, slender middle-aged woman with fine features and bright, intelligent eyes came out to meet us.

"Hello," she said.

"Good Afternoon, I'm looking for Mr and Mrs Hopper."

She smiled.

"You've found us then. I'm Jo Hopper, and you must be Mrs Dawson, the lady who bought ten of Edward's paintings."

I must have looked surprised.

"Frank Rehn told us that you were English, and your accent gives you away."

"Please call me Victoria, and this is Mr Lionel Wallace."

"I'm very pleased to meet you both. Won't you come in."

We entered a small, sparsely furnished room with a rickety wooden table and three wooden chairs. A battered armchair sat in one corner of the room, and in a small alcove there was an iron stove, shelves with crockery, a few chipped enamel pots and pans, a water pitcher, and a basin.

We had barely sat. when Jo offered us tea or coffee, and we both accepted tea.

"We knew you were coming, but not when. Edward is out on the dunes painting. He'll be back when the sun gets lower and the light softens. In an hour or so I would imagine if you'd like to wait?"

"We wouldn't want to impose."

"It's no bother. It's nice to have the company. We don't get many visitors up here, and certainly not somebody who has complimented him by giving him a major sale as you have. Edward is not a very expressive man, so thank you on his behalf."

"I wanted to meet you both. A young artist in England told me about your husbands work and when I saw it I fell in love with it. It was only natural that I want to meet the artist and see where he worked."