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101 Erotic Nights
The Sheherazade Diaries
THE SECRET DIARISTS
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HarperImpulse an imprint of
HarperCollinsPublishers
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First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2015
Copyright © The Secret Diarists 2015
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Cover design by Isabella Ashford
The Secret Diarists asserts the moral right
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available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction.
The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are
the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is
entirely coincidental.
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Ebook Edition © March 2015 ISBN: 9780008140069
Version 2015-03-13
To those who gave us love, inspiration and helped make this happen… you know who you are. And if you don’t, then thank you anyway!
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
The Diaries.
The Secret Diarists
About HarperImpulse
About the Publisher
Prologue
What is it with us girls? We try to get what we want, what our hearts desire and sometimes all in the world is just wonderful. We meet the man of our dreams and allow ourselves to be whisked off our feet. We have crushes and days and nights when we simply cannot live without being cradled in his strong arms. We need him. We need him to make love to us with all his strength and passion. We need him to fuck us until our legs are weak and trembling with the effort of taking him in, willingly giving him the same pleasure that we ourselves are taking. We daydream about how it will be happily ever after. We yearn for his total attention and adoration. Sometimes we think that we should have his children, that they will provide a further bond between us, tie us as tight as a wet knot. But then he turns away from us, just a side step at first or maybe the wrong sort of glance at the table and then we glimpse the reality of relationship. That desperate slide into just being there. An inevitable acceptance. The taking for granted. The rare quickie, the occasional after Newsnight and lights out shag that has replaced the slow and considerate mouth watering seduction on the big sofa in front of the fire. It’s then we either put up and shut up or if we’re like Beth Rogers, we turn to the Sheherazade Diaries to rekindle a hundred and one erotic nights…
“What are you doing, Miles?” I asked.
“Working, darling,” he replied, patting me absentmindedly on the arm.
I lay in bed next to him, listening to the tap, tapping of his fingers on the laptop and wondered why things had changed. When did our bedroom become an office? When did it stop being a playground, a palace for lovemaking, touching and talking? A place for intimacy, not the internet?
I moved a tentative foot across the bed and gently stroked his leg, hoping for a sign that the evening could be put to better use.
“I hope you haven’t got tired of me” I whispered, waiting for the once inevitable stirring of life beneath my fingers, but Miles sighed and gently pushed me away.
There was a time, only a few weeks ago, when he would have risen strongly at my touch and become hard as teak with a few gentle brushes of my hand.
If it had been a week day we would have kissed goodnight. Even though we were both tired, the kiss would have lingered. Soft and liquid at first, then more urgent. We would have turned to face each other and then Miles would have caressed my neck. I would have slipped my hand down his naked torso until I could feel his arousal. Miles would have gasped with pleasure and then softly rubbed me with his crooked finger. Inevitably we would then have made love. Hard, fast and satisfying. Then, crushed with happy fatigue, we would have slid into contented sleep.
Or if it had been a Saturday morning he might have made love to me for one exquisite hour. Attentive, tender yet full of passion. So loving that I would want to cry with joy.
But tonight? Nothing.
“The only thing hard at the moment is the drive on that thing,” I said, nodding at the laptop.
“Sorry, darling, got to get this report finished for tomorrow. Maybe later, okay?”
“Oh, right, I’ll make an appointment shall I?”
“Don’t be like that. I can’t help it if sex isn’t high on the agenda these days.”
“Oh, Miles, I’m not talking about sex. I’m talking about loving contact and passion and wanting each other the way we used to.”
“Well, after five years, maybe it’s just the way things go.”
“But why should it be? On our last anniversary we made love like newlyweds. We said we always would. Remember? That night in the hotel, with the mirror?”
Miles couldn’t help but grin. Yes, he remembered.
“You always made me feel that way, Miles. Always. Until the last few weeks, that is.”
Finally he shut the lid of his laptop and looked at me properly, “I’m just a bit tired maybe, and stressed … I’m just not as energetic I guess. Don’t worry, darling. Everything will be fine. You’ll see.” He took my hand and guided it down between his legs. The mighty man, once so enthusiastic and inexhaustible, remained stubbornly inert. He sighed and went back to his computer.
If the excitement and spontaneity had gone out of our marriage, it was as much my responsibility as his and I was determined to find a way to restore it. I already had one broken marriage behind me and couldn’t watch things disintegrate again. It was heart-breaking. I loved Miles so much and at thirty one, I was also getting broody. There was no way a baby could be a part of our life just now. So, a few days later when Miles was away on a golfing weekend, I went to see my friend Imogen. If anyone could help it would be her.
I’ve known her for years, since we met on a creative writing course over ten years ago when I was just finishing Uni. We struck up an unlikely friendship; there’s twenty years difference in age between us and she was part of my previous life before I met Miles, when I was with Laurent and hung around in quite bohemian circles. So we go back a long way and she has shared many of my ups and downs over the years. I think it’s because of this that Miles is not very fond of her.
Imo is quite eccentric, with flamboyant clothes and ever-changing, colourful hair and used to be a theatrical costumier, running her business from a converted granary. Over time, it seemed that her outfits and props were being hired for more than just stage and screen. Sexual role-play became a big thing and customers started asking for somewhere private and discreet to indulge their fantasies. Spotting a gap in the market, Imogen extended and refurbished her premises, providing rooms as well as costumes and toys to suit all tastes and requirements. She also offered personal tuition in the privacy of her ‘Playbarn’. Business was booming.
“You need to whet his appetite, Beth. Have you tried dressing up?” she asked me over coffee and cakes, in the comfort of her sitting room.
“Oh yes, Imo. Doctor and nurse, obviously, although Miles found that a bit too close to home once he became a GP! Maid and master … we’ve done most things in most places over the years. I don’t think we’ve lacked in imagination, it’s more as if we’ve lost that magical, intimate connection we used to have. If Miles isn’t working on his computer, he’s on the phone or staring at the television. We don’t talk properly anymore.”
“Well, it’s all about communication, isn’t it? Have you thought of reading to him in bed?”
“I want to turn him on, not send him to sleep!”
“It all depends on what you read, Beth! You need sexy stuff. Stories, poetry, use the written word to arouse him. What could be more intimate and personal than Miles listening to your voice saying things you know he’d like to hear? I’ve got a whole library you could borrow!”
“Mmm… sounds interesting.”
“That’s what Cameron and I used to do. Worked wonders for Anthony and Cleopatra!” Imo wiggled her eyebrows. I smiled at my friend. I had always loved her frankness and sense of humour.
“Listen, here’s one of my favourites.” She took down an old, tattered book from the shelf and started to read. I was a sucker for old books and still had two first editions that Laurent had given me for my twenty-first.
The story was called Ghassan and her warm voice drifted into the air and seeped into my brain.
“That is perfect, Imo.”
“Yes, isn’t it? And there’re lots more besides. You could read him a story every night. See where it takes you.”
“Like A Thousand and One Tales!”
“Well not quite, that would be pushing things too far! But look, today’s the 22nd of September, why not give it a try until New Year?” Imo counted the days on the calendar. “That’s 101 days exactly! Now if that’s not an omen, I don’t know what is!”
“Imo, that’s brilliant! I’m so excited!”
“You should come to the ‘Playbarn’ and go through all the stuff I’ve got there, books, magazines and other bits and pieces. There’s even a Visitor’s Book that makes a pretty good read! See what takes your fancy. I could even ask the folk in my on-line writer’s club to come up with something. You’re creative Beth, use your skills, change the names, write something yourself. Even Miles might be tempted to put pen to paper. Who knows what you’ll come up with?”
I smiled at the thought; why not? I could imagine both of us enjoying it and it would be fun finding things to read to him. If I couldn’t compete with a computer then perhaps I didn’t deserve to get my husband back. I would keep a daily journal and fill it with stories.
“Okay, that’s what I’m going to do, Imo. You can lend me things to start me off and the rest I’ll find in the library or on the internet. You won’t mention my name to your club will you?”
“It’s all anonymous, Beth. They don’t even know who I am!”
The thought took hold and that’s how my diary began. Like Sheherazade, I was fighting to change what struck me as a very bleak future and what follows is the uncensored and unabridged account of how I met that challenge. Was I successful? Well, you’ll just have to read on to find out.
The Diaries.
Day One – Monday 23rd September.
4.12 pm
Big 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.”
They sat at low tables and Ghassan was mesmerized by the rustling of the women’s skirts skimming the marble floors as they served mint tea in the customary cups. He could feel his usual problem threatening to rear up without much warning, so quickly began a mundane conversation with his cousin about the coming week-end’s hunting trip – anything to steer his thoughts away from the bosoms and thighs now so obvious beneath the girls’ flimsy attire. Four of them begin to sway to the music and the conversation drifts away to nothing as all eyes are fixed on the gentle movements of the dancers. One of them unties a scarf from her waist and playfully entwines it around Ghassan’s neck inviting him to join her and he willingly follows as she leads him through to another room.
A soft, yet firm whisper, “Don’t speak”, enters his blindfolded world. He knows she’s there before the voice confirms it; that unmistakable musky scent combines with an undertone of apricot oil to invade his confused thoughts. The softest touch of a silken finger brushes the downy centre of his abdomen in slow, circular motions moving teasingly downwards. Not sleeping but just below the surface, inhaling deeply, he is intoxicated by the heady perfume, as a hand slips down to the oily pool that now lies in the well below his belly.
He hears a murmured inducement: “Lest you wake from your reverie, my sweet boy.”
He smells a smoky, woody opiate and willingly sinks into a dreamlike state. Too soft this touch upon his thighs, a tongue tip searches inwards, whilst fingers dip into the oil and find their slippery way to his waiting manhood. Tongue and fingers become one in his dancing mind and still the dance goes on.
Her breath is warm as the Mistral in June as he feels the weight of gossamer-clad breasts fall upon his unsuspecting face. A gasp, “hush!” A throaty whisper from her now as she places a bud-like nipple to his open mouth and he tastes the apricots as she sits astride him:
“Not yet, dear one, not yet …” Her lips so close he feels the breath as she withdraws and slides down to take him in her mouth. A probing tongue lingers and swirls ’til his single thought is of the utter softness of her and he can hold back no longer. Her wet lips graze his cheek in a parting gesture and she gently removes the silken scarf from his eyes:
“Remember me, as I shall remember you, Ghassan.” He hears the door click shut. His eyes have yet to adjust but the husky voice and her scent will stay with him always.
11.38 pm
Miles has fallen asleep. I am wide awake. So much for that then!
He looks gorgeous lying there, the strong line of his jaw, dark stubble, tousled hair, a bit too long. Is that grey hair at the temples? The moon is bright tonight, waning yet giving a strong light across the room. We sleep with the curtains open – helps us get up in the morning!
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