August on the Lake

August on the Lake is an erotic short story about fellatio and divorce. It originally appeared in French as Aout sur le lac and was written expressly for Osez… 20 histoires de fellation, published by La Musardine, Paris, France, 2010.

It was also published as August on the Lake in The Muse Revisited: More Early Erotica Volume 3 by Marilyn Jaye Lewis, published by Marilyn Jaye Lewis, 2018.

August on the Lake includes sexually explicit material that might not be suitable for all readers. Please be advised.


August on the Lake

It was that moment of the evening that can only come in late summer. When the deep blue twilight settles into the trees but the fireflies no longer come. It is an empty sky but the serenity of it extends forever. Summer is dying and you feel it, finally. The ache of it makes a noticeable impression.

The house on the lake was mine; it was part of the terms of our divorce – our “amicable” parting. We’d both agreed that a divorce was for the best; his love for me was gone. His infidelity to me, however, ensured that I was well taken care of. He felt guilty; he wanted me to have everything. Two houses, a luxury car; the expensive furniture we’d picked out months before the actual wedding five years earlier. All of his hard-earned cash split right down the middle, too. As for my heart, though, I was the one who’d lost everything. My love for him hadn’t died; it hadn’t gone anywhere. He’d decided that the marriage was over and so that was that; we moved on.

We still had friends in common, so I tried to remain cordial to him, even tried being accepting of the new love in his life. I couldn’t change the reality of her so accepting it seemed like a better idea. And I knew I didn’t want to have children, didn’t I? I’d said as much I don’t know how many times. How many arguments had we had over just that very thing? I didn’t want to have children. Yet when it became apparent that his new love was having his baby and that this was why he had been so suddenly forthcoming with me about his affair and why he’d been in such a hurry to end it legally with me; that for him, a family meant more than a house on the lake, or a luxury car, or the other house we’d called home for five years – that part was harder for me to accept. Especially in public, where I felt like such a selfish fool in front of all our friends; after all, how could I begrudge him this chance for real happiness with a woman who was giving him the very thing I hadn’t wanted? If we were all getting what we wanted then I should be happy for all of us, shouldn’t I? But my congeniality was on the surface. It was the mask I wore; it did not describe the world beneath the mask.

After the divorce, our circle of friends still met at the lake house every weekend throughout the summer and he was always invited. It was my turf; it was easier to be friendly to him and his burgeoning new bride when I was surrounded by the security of everything I still called home. I would not have been able to set foot into their house, however, even if I had been invited. I did not want to know what it looked like – that happy domicile where they awaited their heavenly blessing together. Still, I could be a good hostess to them when all our friends were there to create a social buffer; I could be civilized.

I was relieved that the baby – a girl – came in late fall and so her noisy arrival didn’t disturb our weekends at the lake. And by the time summer rolled around the following year, the baby girl was still too young; any traveling was too much of a burden on the baby’s mother. On occasion, he joined our party at the lake house without his wife but he never stayed more than a few hours with us. That last weekend in August, though, as the summer was dying, he joined us to bid goodbye to the season and this time, he planned on staying longer than a few hours; he was staying the weekend.

The house sits at a remote end of the lake where there are many, many trees. On a clearing that leads to a simple boat dock, there’s a beach, but it’s not a sandy beach; it’s full of pebbles and stones. The view is beautiful there, nevertheless, and it’s where the large white picnic table remains all summer, its wood peeling and weather-beaten. There are eight white-washed chairs that have also seen better days, but they fit the rustic scenery. In the approaching twilight, the white-washed wood looks hauntingly lovely against the backdrop of the deep blue lake and the rose-streaked sky.

Dinner was over. We all got up from the table, our wine glasses in hand, to go for a walk in the fading evening, leaving our dirty dishes behind us to tend to later – the scraps of grilled fish, the leftover olives, the tomatoes, the remnants of the chilled soup with the fresh herbs; the poached apricots we’d had for dessert. Our friends chose to stroll along the pebbled beach, but he and I headed for that well-known path through the trees that circled just behind the house. We’d always done that in the days when we were married; it had been our habit to stroll there after dinner and enjoy what was left of our wine. Evidently the habit was hard to break. The path went up a hill and so the view of the lake from there was even more breathtaking.

“How’s the baby?” I asked him – not really wanting to know; I was just being polite, I suppose.

“She’s fine,” he said simply, but the light in his eye told me more than that; the baby was more than fine, the baby was everything to him; heaven and earth combined. She was everything I’d refused him.

“That’s good,” I said. I was not going to ask about his wife.

It seemed then that there would be nothing else to say. There was no “us” anymore; nothing we shared in common besides these summer weekends with our old crowd. The divorce was long over so there wasn’t even anything legal to talk about.

We continued along the path in silence until we came to the little clearing in the trees where we’d always stopped in happier times and enjoyed the view; once more, we stopped there. We looked out at the lake, sipping our glasses of wine.

I wanted to say, “Remember that time…” And there were so many times to remember, weren’t there? But surely the high point of memories surrounding that little clearing in the trees was our first evening as proud owners of a lovely lake house. How happy we were that evening, as twilight came and revealed to us the breathtaking view right at that very spot; we couldn’t believe that a little slice of paradise like that was really ours.

We’d had wine with us that first night, as well.  Not a steely Chablis Grand Cru, as we were drinking now, but a warm, full-bodied red. I don’t recall the name of that wine, only that it was red, and that we’d kissed each other and it had all felt so intoxicating: Our love, our home, our evening; the sky above us spreading out to eternity in shades of sapphire and fiery amber. And I’d kissed his neck, then; the scent of his skin filling my nose and arousing me even more. His skin was warm and smelled like summer – the lake; his sweat; the pine trees. His skin smelled so uniquely like him, the man I loved, and like no one else.

“Here,” I’d said, handing him my glass of wine to hold.

“What’s this for?” he’d said softly. He was smiling that night; the light in his eye then was about loving me.

“I need my hands free,” I’d said. And I began to unbutton his shirt. He did not have much hair on his chest, just a faint covering of it with darker hairs around the nipples – which were tiny and yet very responsive, even when they weren’t hard.

I’d kissed my way across his chest, tenderly teasing those tiny nipples with the tip of my tongue until they’d stiffened under the caresses. He groaned but it was barely discernible in the evening air, which was alive with the sounds of crickets and the cries of birds seeking their nests for the coming darkness. Still, I reached my hand down between his legs and found that he was aroused down there.

I squeezed his hard-on through his jeans. He laughed self-consciously at his discovered erection. “Don’t do that,” he protested. “Here – take your wine. This isn’t fair. I can’t touch you.”

But I ignored his pleas. I kissed my way down his belly instead, to where the darker hairs became more profuse. I began to unbuckle his belt.

“Sweetie, don’t,” he said, but he sounded like he didn’t mean it. “Come on, take your wine. Let’s at least lie down.”

“Later,” I said. “We’ve got all night to lie down.”

“But what should I do with the wine?”

I suggested he drink it. I popped open the button of his jeans and pulled down the zipper. “No – there’s a boat,” he said. “Look – there’s a boat. It’s right out there on the water.”

I tugged his jeans down his thighs and I glanced out at the water. A small sailboat had come into view. It looked as perfect as a painting, drifting there on the calm lake with the sky overhead a smear of rose and purple now. “They can’t possibly see us,” I said. “We’re hidden by the trees.” I tugged down his cotton Y-fronts; his erection sprang out into the evening air.

He’d gasped then. I’d heard him perfectly. It was an aching gasp, full of lust. I touched the very tip of his cock with my tongue and he didn’t say anything more about sailboats; he stopped complaining about holding the wine. He was probably grateful now that both my hands were free so that with one hand, I could hold his cock and let my tongue slide easily up and down the length of it, while my other hand caressed his balls. They were always so delicate, those balls – those twin sacks of surprising life.

Sucking his cock always aroused me; it made me wet. I’d gotten down on my knees then, right down in the dirt; in the dead leaves and the fallen pine needles from previous seasons. I was wearing a sundress that evening; my legs were bare but I didn’t mind kneeling down in the dirt; truthfully, I didn’t even notice it, I was too consumed by my desire for his cock, to have it in my mouth and give pleasure to him. My belly got all stirred up then – that place in my womb that ached for him to fill it; it overtook sensible things like thinking. I didn’t think at all about being down in the dirt. And it was always startling at first – fitting my mouth around his erection. The sudden size of it; how firm and warm it was when he was aroused, in such contrast to how spiritless and cool it was the rest of the time. It was an enigma, wasn’t it – that cock? And it was probably enigmatic even to him. He groaned again when his cock entered my mouth and I could feel it grow thicker. Our love was so reliable – our lust for each other; it always yielded this proof of his passion for me. That proof was all I needed in those days to have a happy life.

Normally, he’d set the tempo; guiding his erection into my mouth, pulling it out then sliding it in again; grabbing tight to my hair while he did so but keeping his rhythm easy; in, out. Then over again. My mouth getting wetter each time his cock went in; the spit beginning to gather until my mouth couldn’t contain it; it drooled out, my chin becoming a wet mess. But it didn’t matter. I’d keep pace with him – though my jaw would begin to ache. Until that one stroke that pushed his cock all the way in. Then he would hold it there, challenging my need to breathe; the fleshy head of his cock probing the very back of my throat, pushing against it; tears coming to my eyes. Then he’d have mercy on me. Pulling his cock out of my mouth, he’d start the rhythm over and I would happily follow his lead.

If we’d been on a bed, naked, involved in all the acts of lovemaking, he would have been in control; it was what usually suited our temperaments. But standing there with his pants down his thighs, out in the evening air, and nothing to steady himself against because his hands were holding two glasses of wine, he had to surrender to me, do whatever I chose. That night, on my knees, I chose to hold tight to his ass, steadying us both as I kept my mouth centered on him – as if my mouth were my vagina now, that other hole he loved to fuck. I was determined to make him come in just that position, his cock pushing against the back of my throat as if it were instead my cervix; the entrance to my womb. He rarely came in my mouth. We were usually too passionate for that and needed the power of hard fucking; we preferred coming that way. Until, of course, time began passing and fucking led only to arguments over my refusal to have a baby…

But that was still down the road, we didn’t know about that yet; how it would rip us to pieces, our inability to find an easy compromise. Our love was still new then and our ignorance of each other – of who we really were – shielded us and kept us in love. That night, I took his cock in my mouth, sucked it all the way in, until the head of it found itself with nowhere to go but deeper down my throat, which was opening for his cock and I held it there, letting it define me, not needing to breathe so much; my nose pressed flat against his coarse hairs and filling with the scent of him; my throat pulsing around the fleshy intrusion and tears coming to my eyes before I released it. I did this many times: withdrew him, then sucked him back down and held my throat open for him. I was determined to make him come without allowing him the use of his hands to steady himself.

And he did come, finally. Emitting a quick cry of rapture as the sperm shot out of him, going straight down my throat, as I held to him and he held to the glasses of wine. Perhaps it was a cry that was carried off on the evening air, reaching the ears of whoever manned that sailboat. Maybe their heads sprang to attention; their eyes searching the trees to find the source of that rapturous cry. But maybe not; who can know? It was years ago. We were in our own world then; that world of joyful lust and abandon; the union of our hearts, inseparable. Before the incessant arguing began to erode his fondness for me, sending him into the bed of another woman whose own desires did not refute his; her womb apparently opening right up for his seed.

What would it be like now? I wondered. I glanced at him. He was enjoying his wine and enjoying the view of the lake, the sun setting – who knew what he was thinking; what memories might he be recalling? What if we stole a few moments here and now, I thought, and behaved like lovers again? What if I got down on my knees for him and became quite accommodating with my mouth?

I could bait him; I could hand him my glass of wine and ask him to hold it; then do everything in my power to seduce him, to persuade him to cheat on her as he had cheated on me. We could be together again, only this time as infidels – our secret love binding us to some sort of brilliant destiny where we created life between us and not just all that regrettable fighting.

The truth of it was that I longed to be down on my knees for him again, if only to be forgiven for the cruel things I’d often said and to say that now I had reconsidered all of it; that having his baby would have been far better than this empty life I was living without him. I still thought about him constantly; it was why I had been willing to endure those summer weekends being around his pregnant wife – I wanted to be near him. And I still craved his touch: his mouth, his tongue, his hands, his cock; still longed for the smell of his warm skin filling my nose or for his feral scent all over my face, making me crazy – the way it always used to make me crazy when we were entwined in sixty-nine on that bed that was now solely my own but which we had once shared as married people, and I was on the bottom. It was not easy to have his cock down my throat when I was on the bottom, so my world would be centered on his balls, then. I would gently devour them; one, then the other, maybe both at the same time. Suck them, caress them with my tongue. Until I tired of that and my tongue found his asshole and caressed him there instead, probing into it as it relaxed for me, the sounds of his delight filling my ears. My legs clamped around his waist; his mouth on my cunt that was soaking and so engorged; his tongue tormenting my captive clit in that way he was always so good at… Why was it over? Why did I not have a second chance? These were questions I now asked myself long into the nights. The answers were never happy ones.

He looked at me then, and spoke, finally. “It’s a beautiful evening, isn’t it?” he said. “You can feel summer ending, do you know what I mean? It’s poignant.”

“Yes,” I said simply.

“So, are you seeing anyone yet?”

“No, not yet.”

“But you’re going to one of these days, right?”

“One of these days, sure,” I said.

“You’re going to move on, remember? We promised.”

We’d promised. I took the last sip of my wine and stopped looking at him. “I will,” I assured him.

“You will?”

“Yes, I give you my word; I’m moving on.” Then I tossed it onto the heap of those other promises that had been so easily broken. Who was he to tell me what to do anymore?

© – 2010 Marilyn Jaye Lewis

The world of author Marilyn Jaye Lewis

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