101 Erotic Nights: The Sheherazade Diaries. The Diarists Secret

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СКАЧАТЬ breath as I start this diary. Putting pen to the pristine pages. Here goes.

      Dear Diary,

      Isn’t that the way to start off? Haven’t kept one since I was a kid. I went into Paperchase at lunchtime and got this lovely loose-leaf book with natural paper and ribbon fastening. Must use my best handwriting, so I got a really nice pen with butterflies on it. I know, I have tons of pens in the cupboard but I wanted something new and special.

      The first story will be easy. It’s the one Imo gave me. It’s going to get much more challenging as the nights go on but fingers crossed that I can keep going.

      What’s the plan? I’m already a day late in starting; last night was a washout. Miles came home from the golf about midnight, pretty drunk and was asleep before I could even say ‘how was your weekend?’

      I’m sending him a text asking to meet me at Costa after work. I need somewhere neutral to get his attention and tell him about my idea.

      He replied right away.

      >>>Sorry love, got to work late home @ 8 xxxxx

      Got to work late…

      I decided to go to Costa on my own. I needed a coffee. Two lattes. One after the other. Caffeine rush to the head. Sat at the window and watched people go by and wondered where it was all going. Maybe it’s me. When I got home I took off all my clothes and looked at myself in the mirror. How many women do this I wonder? The summer tan is still there, a bit. Boobs are lively! They haven’t sunk to my navel yet. Miles likes the brownness of my nipples. And my belly’s not too round. If I hold myself in it looks quite flat! Legs are still strong, cycling to work helps. No unsightly hair, everything nice and groomed, courtesy of Gina’s. Toenails, red. Yet, despite my best efforts, I still feel inadequate somehow. I have Laurent to blame for that I suppose. It’s not great for the self-esteem when your husband of 18 months runs off with one of his models. Of course that’s what he did with me, and then left his wife. Well, that’s another story.

      But Miles always loved my body and made me feel good about myself, so there must be something that’s turning him away from me.

      I can feel this whole idea failing before it even gets going! And I’ve still to make dinner and have essays to mark for tomorrow. I’ll be dead in bed before I can even think about reading Miles a story. But I’ve really got to try, and my first story is so sweet!

       Around 9 pm

      “Communication.”

      “What?” Miles had a mouthful of lasagne.

      “I said, communication.”

      He looked at me and then glanced at his phone for the football results.

      “Imo says it’s all about communication.”

      “What is?”

      “Our problem.”

      “What problem? And what’s Imo got to do with it?”

      “I went over to her house for coffee on Sunday afternoon when you were golfing and we talked about things.”

      He put down his phone and looked at me with his smokey grey eyes. He frowned and my stomach gave a little lurch as the lines around his eyes creased; he seemed so vulnerable. I felt guilty for discussing our sex life with someone else.

      “Why didn’t you just talk to me?”

      “Oh, Miles. I’ve been trying for weeks.”

      I was on the brink of crying and I am almost in tears as I write this now, remembering how hurt he looked. The two of us in the dining room trying to find the right words. I grabbed his hand across the table.

      “I love you so much and I want you to be happy. I want you to desire me, Miles.”

      I find this kind of honest talk quite difficult. My upbringing was of a very down to earth, working class nature, with little room for sentiment and soppy emotions. Sweet talk is embarrassing for me but I had learned some very deep emotions with Laurent and he had taught me how to be naughty. I had never shown this side of myself to Miles. It isn’t really me but perhaps it was time for extreme measures. I continued to push the point.

      “I am going to be Sheherazade. I am going to read you a story every night for the next 101 days, until the New Year.”

      He smiled and my stomach lurched again.

      “This sounds like one of Imogen’s charades. Are you going to dress up like an Arabian princess and do I have to kill you in the morning?” He wasn’t taking me seriously.

      “I’ll dress up if you want me too! And you won’t want to kill me because you’ll be desperate to hear the next story!”

      He leaned over and kissed me softly. I could taste the Chablis on his lips.

      “You don’t have to go to such lengths, Beth.”

      “You have to be honest Miles, you’ve hardly touched me for weeks. I do need to go to such lengths, and I will!”

      I showed him the Diary. He could see I was serious.

      “Okay, I’ll humour you, but I can’t see how a story can make any difference.”

      “Just wait and see.”

      “Okay, will we finish the wine first?”

       11.10 pm

      And so we went to bed, a little drunk, Miles smirking at the ridiculousness of it all and me nervous as anything. What if I just embarrassed myself? He made himself comfortable, head back on the pillows, eyes closed. I asked him if he wanted a blindfold and he snorted in disbelief! Silk negligee to the ready, I read the first story.

      1. “Ghassan”

      The 17 year-old Ghassan longed for love – or so he thought. What he really longed for was sex; any kind of sex would do, he just needed an outlet for all this pent up energy, waiting to burst forth and, luckily for him, his cousin Faisal sensed this need. Ever since he was a small boy, Faisal had led the way for his younger cousin and he had watched him these past weeks longingly gazing across the street to catch a glimpse of the college girls before they were whisked away from view. Ghassan’s family had big plans for their son, so no early marriage had been talked of; he was to travel to America and attend College there, just as soon as his final year was ended. Meanwhile the urges of a 17 year old boy are strong and, left unfulfilled, begin to take over all his waking hours, and most of his sleeping hours too.

      “We have an appointment, Ghassan. Meet me at my market stall around 2pm – and look smart!”

       Ghassan was intrigued of course but knew better than to ask questions. Faisal loved a secret and nothing would have persuaded him to impart even a tiny detail of the ‘appointment’.

       “What is this place, Faisal? Everyone seems to know you.”

       “All in good time my boy, all in good time.”

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