Christopher Lee - For The Love Of Sara

The children went off to bed and Jill made two cups of coffee which she took out onto the patio. After going in to kiss the children goodnight, Grant joined her.

“Fancy a night cap?” he asked Jill reaching for the bottle of duty-free Bacardi.

“Just a small one,” she replied. “To tell you the truth, I still feel a bit tiddly from dinner.”

“It’s good to see you look so relaxed,” he said.

They sat and chatted while they drank their coffee and rum. Jill went back into the lounge and pulled out the sofa bed. Grant looked at her bent over as she spread the sheets. He could make out the outline of her white panties under her long white skirt. He got up from his chair and moved quickly and silently behind her and placed his hands either side of her hips pulling her bottom into his crutch. She gave a little gasp of surprise.

“Wait until I have made the bed,” she protested.

“Fuck the bed,” said Grant curtly, and moved his hands to the hem of her skirt and drew it up over her hips. With thumbs either side of her panties he yanked them down to her knees.

“Grant, wait a minute,” she pleaded. But Grant was in too much of a hurry. There was no time for foreplay, no time for loving. He wanted her sex now. He yanked at the belt of his shorts and undid the belt with his left hand his right pressing on his wife’s back, keeping her bent over.

His shorts slipped to the floor and he kicked them away. He reached inside his pants and yanked out his stiff penis and testicles. Roughly he parted the cheeks of her buttocks and thrust his hips forward entering her to the hilt. She gave out a loud gasp.

“Grant, you’re hurting me,” she said hoarsely. But he ignored her protests and thrust harder, his pace becoming frenzied. He reached underneath her chest and grabbed her right breast as it hung loosely inside her T-shirt. He pinched the nipple, pulling it roughly.

“Grant, stop it, you’re hurting me. Don’t be so rough.” She tried to straighten up but Grant pushed her back down as he felt his climax building to an unbearable crescendo, his sperm screaming for release. Then he erupted into her as spasms of ecstasy ripped through him. He gave a grunt, reached down and withdrew his semi-rigid organ. Jill collapsed forward onto the unmade bed, face down with her legs curled up. Grant said nothing. He walked to the bathroom, his penis pointing the way.

He flicked on the light and the fan came on. The door swung shut. He collapsed against the wall, thoroughly drained. His forehead rested against the mirror and he looked at his squashed image. His breathing was still heavy and laboured, his breath forming a misty cloud on the glass. He looked into his own eyes and saw a callous bastard staring back – mocking him

“Well done son, fucking good job.” He stood over the toilet and waited to pee. When he finished he wiped himself with some toilet paper, dropped it in the pan and flushed. He turned on the cold tap and, cupping his hands, threw some of the salty water over his face. He looked at the now dripping face in the mirror then turned away in disgust. When he went back into the lounge she was still lying there, but had pulled a sheet over herself. Grant slid in beside her and stared up at the ceiling. He turned on his side facing her back and put his arm over her. She shrugged and elbowed him away.

“I’m so sorry,” he said feebly. “I don’t know what came over me.” She made no reply. He turned the other way, closed his eyes and promised himself to dream about mermaids, but he never did. He never dreamt at all that night.

CHAPTER 8

He woke early and thought about going for his early morning swim, but then thought better of it. She might be there. As crazy as it was, he was frightened of seeing her.

When Jill got up she made no mention of the previous night’s events. She showered and dressed while Grant made tea and set the table on the patio for breakfast. It was as he was munching through a plate of cornflakes and reading a guide book when there was a knock on the door. It was barely eight o’clock.

He padded across the tiled floor to open the door. He just knew it was going to be Sara standing there demanding to know why he hadn’t gone for a swim. Instead it was the twins from the hotel, a couple of fair-haired 13 year-olds, identical in every way, even down to the braces on their teeth.

“Hello is Emma coming out for a swim?” asked one.

“We arranged it last night,” said the other.

“I don’t think she’s even awake,” replied Grant. “Hang on, I’ll go and check.” He peeped in to the bedroom. Emma was dead to the world. He went back to the twins. “I’m sorry, she’s still asleep,” he said. “I will tell her you called.”

“Tell her we’ll be in the big pool,” said one, then turning in unison, as if they were Siamese twins, they marched off.

“Who was at the door?” asked Jill emerging from the bathroom.

“Just some friends of Emma,” said Grant going back to the patio to finish his coffee.

“What did they want?” asked Jill, drying her hair with a towel.

“Apparently they had arranged to go for an early swim,” said Grant, “but she’s still asleep.”

He picked up the guide book. “There’s an interesting monastery up in the mountains that might be worth a look,” said Grant. “What do you think?”

Just then the bedroom door opened as Emma appeared.

“What time is it?” she yawned.

“Just gone eight,” said her dad. “The twins knocked for you.”

“Oh no, I forgot. We were supposed to be going swimming.”

“They said they’d be in the big pool,” said Grant. “You’ve only just missed them.”

“Mum, where are my swimming things?” she asked.

“On the patio where you left them,” said Jill.

The teenager scooped up the striped swimsuit and a towel.

“You haven’t had any breakfast yet,” said Jill.

“That’s OK said the teenager. “Dad always says you shouldn’t swim on a full stomach, right dad? I’ll have some when I get back. Bye.”

Minutes later Grant watched her skipping across to the pool. She knew he would be watching her because she turned, waved and ran off.

She came back just before ten. The other children were all up except Sally who was still snoring. Grant was reading a Shaun Hutson paperback he had bought at the airport.

“Dad,” said Emma.

“Yes love,” he said not looking up, engrossed in a particularly gory piece of prose.

“Dad, would it be okay if Sara came out with us today?” His concentration was immediately broken at the mention of her name. He looked up. There standing behind his daughter was Sara dressed in a bright pink and green one piece swimming costume with a towel wrapped around her head like a turban. She didn’t speak, just fixed him with those dazzling green eyes.

“Her mum’s not feeling too good and they can’t go out so I thought she could come with us. She can, can’t she?”

“Of course she can,” interjected Jill before Grant had a chance to reply.

“We’re doing a bit of site seeing then going to a beach. She’s welcomed to join us, isn’t she Grant?”

“Well, I suppose so,” stuttered Grant, “if it’s okay with her mum and dad.”

“I haven’t got a dad,” Sara said sharply. “He’s dead.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Grant apologetically. “I didn’t know.”

“Why would you,” said Sara. “I’ll just tell mum.”

There were three rows of seats in the car. Emma and Sara sat in the middle row, three other children sat in the back. Sara sat behind Grant which made him feel distinctly uneasy.

They took the road to Ciudadela then the main drag to Mahon. Monte Toro is twenty kilometres from the capital, near the old market town of Mercadel. They could make out the monastery roofline bristling with aerials and radar dishes. The four kilometre climb by road to the top makes it the highest point on Menorca. From the car park at the summit, visitors can see the entire coastline, to Cala Fornells in the north. The air was much cooler and the corridors of the old building felt chilly. The younger children ran off to explore, but Emma and Sara stayed with Grant and Jill.