My Girlfriend's Mother

Chloe's yoga ran two hours Saturdays. Thank fuck for that.

"Drive," Archie said soon as her BMW turned the corner.

Out past Grantchester. Past everything familiar. Fen edge where nobody goes except doggers and fly-tippers. February. Everything dead or dying.

He'd been different all week. Quieter. Planning something.

"Here."

Lay-by hidden by hedgerow. I pulled in, already wet. Already knowing.

"Get out."

Round to the backseat. The cold hit immediately. My breath visible. He followed, calm as anything.

"Take them off."

The hold-ups. My Thursday purchase. I rolled them down, one then the other. The lace catching on my wedding ring. Still wore it sometimes. Habit.

"Give me your wrists."

I held them out. He wound the stockings round them tight, enough to mean something. The expensive nylon against skin. Me choosing this. Choosing him.

"Lie back."

Awkward with hands bound. Had to use my elbows. The leather cold through my skirt.

"Archie..."

"Shh. You talk too much. Always talking. Lectures. Analysis. Just feel it."

His hands on my thighs. Pushing them apart. The skirt riding up. Nothing underneath except skin and want.

"Look at you. Professor Bennett."

The way he said it. Like it was dirty. Like everything about me was dirty now.

"She has no idea, does she? What her mother really is."

His fingers inside me. Sudden. I arched, wrists pulling against the makeshift restraints.

"Answer me."

"No. She doesn't know."

"What doesn't she know?"

"That I'm..."

"What?"

"Yours."

"Since when?"

"Since Christmas dinner. Since you smiled at me over the turkey."

He laughed. Low. Knowing.

"Weeks of pretending. Both of us. Her boring me senseless about her promotion while I'm thinking about you. About this."

He pulled his fingers out. Wet. Showed them to me.

"This is what I think about during her yoga. Her book club. Her fucking endless phone calls about nothing."

He undid his jeans. Already hard. Twenty-five years old and perfect and choosing this destruction with me.

"You want this."

Not a question.

"Yes."

"Say it properly."

"I want you to fuck me. Here. Now. With my hands tied."

"Why?"

"Because I need to not think. Not analyse. Just... be this."

"Be what?"

"Yours. Whatever that means. Whatever you want it to mean."

He pushed inside me. Slow. Making me feel every inch. My bound hands between us. Useless.

"She told me you were frigid. Said that's why Gerald left."

"Don't..."

"But you're not, are you? You're the opposite. You're desperate. Have been for years."

True. So fucking true it hurt.

He fucked me steady. Deliberate. The car rocking. Anyone passing would know. Let them.

"Going to ruin you completely."

"Already have."

"No. This is just the beginning."

He pulled out. Flipped me over. Face down. Arse up. Hands still tied, pressed against the seat.

"This is what you need. Someone to make the decisions. Take the control away."

His cock pressed against my arse. Just pressure. Threat and promise.

"Ever done this?"

"No."

"But you will. For me."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"..um because you want it. Because I want what you want.."

He pushed back into my cunt instead. Harder now. Punishing. Perfect.

"Tonight. After she's asleep. You'll come to our room."

"She'll hear..."

"Good. Let her. Let her hear, let her see."

The orgasm built fast. Brutal. No thought. Just feeling. Just this.

"Come for me. Now."

I did. Muffling the sound against leather. Body shaking. Wrists pulling against nylon.

He followed. Pulling out. Coming across my back. Marking me.

We stayed there. Breathing hard. The windows completely fogged.

"Don't move."

He untied my wrists. Gentle now. Kissed the red marks. This tenderness after. This care.

"You alright?"

"Yes."

"Sure?"

"Yes. More than alright."

He helped me dress. Fixed my hair. These small intimacies.

Driving home, Radio 4 on. Normal. Like we hadn't just destroyed everything. Again.

At home, Chloe's yoga mat in the hall.

"Did you get milk?" she called.

"Yes, and bread."

That night, midnight, I stood outside their door. Listening. Nothing. She'd had most of a bottle at dinner. Dead to the world.

I turned the handle.

Dark except for her phone charging. That blue light. Archie waiting, covers pulled back. She was turned away, facing the wall. Snoring slightly. The sound she'd made since childhood.

"Get in."

Whispered. But a command.

I slipped in beside him. The bed too small for three. My shoulder touching hers. Christ. The heat of her. My daughter. Unconscious while her boyfriend's hand found me.

"Not a sound."

His palm covered my mouth. Firm. His other hand between my legs. Already wet. Always wet for this.

She shifted. We froze. His hand pressed harder against my mouth. Her breathing settled. His fingers started again. Two inside. Curling. Finding that spot. The smell of her perfume. Wine on her breath. His palm against my lips.

"Turn over."

Barely breathed. I did. Facing her now. Could see her profile in the phone light. Twenty-eight. Still sleeping like a teenager. Mouth open. Vulnerable.

He pushed into me from behind. Slow. The bed couldn't creak. His hand stayed over my mouth. My breath hot against his palm. Her shoulder brushing mine with each careful thrust.

His other hand reached around. Found my clit. Circling. The specific rhythm he'd learned. Too much. Not enough. Her body heat. His fingers working me. His palm sealing in every sound.

She mumbled something. Dream talk. We went still. His cock deep inside me. His hand tighter over my mouth. His fingers frozen on my clit. Waiting. Her breathing evened out. He started moving again. Both hands working.

The orgasm hit silent but violent. My whole body rigid. Screaming against his palm. He followed, pumping his sticky cum inside me.

His hand stayed over my mouth until my breathing calmed. Then slowly released. My lips numb. Jaw aching.

We lay there. All three of us. A terrible family portrait.

"Tomorrow. Again."

I nodded.

Slipped out careful. My legs shaking. Back to my room. His palm print still on my face.

Just felt it. The bruises on my wrists. His cum inside me. The complete dissolution of who I'd been.

Sunday morning. Making breakfast. Chloe complaining about everything. Archie watching me. That look.

Tonight. Again. Worse. Better.

I nodded.

---

A couple of Saturdays later. Wicken Fen.

March. The fen path empty except for dog walkers who knew better than to go deep. We didn't know better. Or didn't care. It was our third Saturday, and with each one, we chose a place riskier than the last. The first had been quiet, the second had been better. This one, this was an open invitation.

Archie pulled me off the main track. Through the reeds. Behind the bird hide where twitchers came at dawn. Empty now. Just mud and the smell of rot.

My back against an oak. Bark catching my jacket. His hands already under my skirt. Black tights, his hands stroking my thighs.

"Someone could..."

"Let them."

On my knees. Mud soaking through immediately. Cold. The taste of him mixing with the smell of peat. My hands on his thighs. His in my hair.

Footsteps.

Not stopping. Not changing direction. Coming closer.

A runner. Blonde ponytail bouncing. Muddy trainers. The kind of girl who did park runs. Who had a Fitbit. Who counted calories.

She stopped. Ten feet away. Saw us. Saw everything.

My mouth still full. My knees sinking deeper. The runner's breath visible in the cold. White puffs. Regular. Like she'd found nothing unusual.

"Fuck," Archie breathed. His grip tightened in my hair.

The runner tilted her head. Watched. Her hand moved to her waistband. Adjusting something. Or not.

I couldn't move. Couldn't stop. Couldn't think beyond the mud seeping through nylon, the bark against my palm where I steadied myself, the stranger's eyes recording everything.

"Don't stop," she said. Local accent. Town not gown.

My professor brain catalogued: twenty-five maybe, size eight trainers, Nike running jacket. The details you notice when your world splits open.

Archie's breathing changed. Faster. His hand guiding my head. Performing now. For her.

The runner stepped closer. Twigs snapping. A blackbird alarmed above us. Regular fen sounds continuing. Like this was normal. Like finding a middle-aged woman on her knees in the mud happened every Saturday.

"She's old enough to be your mum," the runner said. Not disgusted. Interested.

"She is someone's mum," Archie answered.

The runner laughed. Short. Sharp. "Fucking hell."

My knees were numb. My jaw ached. Somewhere a dog barked. Normal sounds while I became something else.

The runner's hand was definitely at her waistband now. Inside. Her breathing changing.

"Is she good?"

"The best."

"Better than girls our age?"

"Not even close."

They were talking about me like I wasn't there. Like I was just a mouth, knees, evidence of how far someone could fall.

Archie pulled my head back. My mouth empty suddenly. Cold air hitting. The runner stared at me. At my face. Mud on my cheek. Lipstick gone. Everything visible.

"What's your name?" she asked me.

I couldn't speak. Throat closed. The word 'Diana' lost somewhere.

"She doesn't talk during," Archie said. "She's too busy."

He pushed back into my mouth. Deeper. The runner made a sound. Her hand moving faster.

A dog walker somewhere close. Whistling. The universal sound of someone who wouldn't look too hard at whatever they might find.

The runner was close now. Could probably smell us. Sex and mud and shame. Her free hand reached out. Touched Archie's chest. He didn't stop her.

"Can I..."

"Ask her."

She looked down at me. "Can I touch him?"

I nodded. As much as I could. What else was there to do? We'd already crossed everything.

Her hand on his stomach. Following the hair down. Fingers next to my lips where they stretched around him. Feeling what I was doing.

"Jesus. You're really... Jesus."

The whistling got closer. The runner stepped back. Hand out of her waistband. Suddenly just a jogger again.

"Morning," the dog walker said, passing on the main path. Not seeing us. Or pretending not to.

We all stayed frozen. Playing normal. Playing like we weren't what we were.

The footsteps faded.

The runner laughed. Nervous now. Real.

"I should... I need to finish my run."

But she didn't move. Watched Archie pull me up. My knees screaming. Tights destroyed. Mud everywhere.

"You could..." Archie started.

"Tell me what to do," she said. Voice small.

He spun her to the oak. Bark hard against her back. Leggings down. Knickers tugged aside.

He pushed into her. No hesitation. Her gasp sharp in the cold air. Half shock, half need.

I moved without thinking. Stepped close. My mouth at her throat. The taste of sweat, salt, peppermint gum. She jolted, then let me. Tilted her head back so I could kiss lower, down the line of her neck.

He fucked her harder. Her hands scrabbling at him, at me. One caught my hair, held me against her.

"Jesus," she whispered, then louder: "Don't stop. Please don't stop."

Archie grinned. Driving deep. "Tight," he said, his voice rough.

She looked at me. Eyes wide. "Kiss me," she said, breathless. I did. Mud on both our faces, teeth knocking, her tongue desperate in my mouth while Archie slammed into her.

Her thighs opened wider, trainers sliding in muck. My hand on her hip, steadying, feeling every thrust through her body.

She moaned into my mouth. Broke the kiss to gasp, "More. Fuck me harder."

He gave it to her. Ruthless now. My lips at her ear, her throat, swallowing the sounds she couldn't hold back.

Her whole body shook when she came. Nails dug into my arm, her cry muffled against my mouth. Archie followed, groaning into her shoulder, pulling free at the last.

She sagged. Sliding down the tree. Hair a mess, leggings twisted. Breathing like she'd just run herself empty.

"Fuck," she said. Not regret. Not shame. Just wonder.

---

She was already back on her way. Ponytail swinging. Trainers finding the path.

"Wait," Archie called.

She turned. Looked at me, not him.

"Every Saturday?"

I nodded.

She ran then. Properly ran. Like she was being chased.

We stood there. Me against the tree. Him tucking himself away. The fen going back to normal. Birds settling. Wind in the reeds.

"That was..."

"Don't."

"Diana..."

"Just don't."

My tights were ruined. Mud up to my thighs. I looked like I'd been crawling through fields. Which I had. Which I was.

Walking back to the car, we passed normal people. Families. A woman with a pushchair. They looked at my mud-covered knees. At Archie's clean clothes. At the obvious mathematics of us.

In the car, heater on full, I peeled off the destroyed tights. Bare legs now. Red marks where the bark had pressed through fabric.

"She was into it," he said.

"She was horrified."

"Both."

True. Both true.

"Will she come back next week?"

I looked at him. Twenty-five. Beautiful. Completely fucked up.

"Probably."

"Will we?"

The mud was drying on my knees. Flaking onto the car mat. Evidence I'd have to vacuum later. Or not. Maybe I'd leave it. A momento of becoming someone I didn't recognize.

"Yes."

He smiled. Put the car in gear. Radio 4 discussing Brexit. Normal sounds while nothing was normal.

At home, Chloe's car was in the drive.

"Shit. She's back early."

"So?"

"I look like..."

"Like you've been crawling through mud."

"Yes."

"Tell her you fell. Running."

"She knows I don't run."

"Then tell her the truth."

He was joking. Except he wasn't. Part of him wanted her to know. Wanted the explosion.

I went in the back door. Straight to the utility room. Stripped. Shoved everything in the machine. Hot wash. Delete the evidence.

Except the runner knew now. A stranger in Cambridge had seen Professor Bennett on her knees in the mud. Had watched. Had joined in.

The machine started its cycle. Spinning everything clean. Like that was possible. Like anything could be clean again.

Upstairs, shower running, I scrubbed mud from my knees. The bruises already showing. Dark marks I'd have to explain. Or not. Maybe I'd wear them visible. Evidence of the falling.

Clean clothes. Hair dried. Makeup fixed. Downstairs looking normal.

Chloe at the kitchen table. On her phone. Always on her phone.

"Where were you?"

"Walking. Wicken Fen."

"Since when do you walk?"

"Since today."

She looked up. Really looked. Saw something. Or chose not to see.

"There's mud on your cheek."

I touched it. Dried dirt I'd missed. From kneeling. From falling. From choosing to fall.

"It's muddy out there."

"Right."

Back to her phone. Back to not seeing what was right in front of her.

Archie came in. Freshly showered. Clean clothes. Looking like nothing had happened.

"Morning, Chloe."

"Hey."

He made coffee. Normal. Like we hadn't just destroyed another boundary. Like a stranger hadn't watched me degrade myself. Him inside her. Like we weren't already planning next Saturday.

The runner would come back. Or she wouldn't. Either way, someone knew now. Someone had seen. The secret was spreading like the mud stains I couldn't quite wash out.

Sitting at the table, all three of us, I thought about the runner's question: "Every Saturday?"

Yes. Every Saturday. Until it all came crashing down.

Which would be soon now. Which might be a relief.