What inspired me to write a whole series of short stories about a married man and his mistress? Simply put, I lived the life. For ten years I was mistress to an older married man. So, is Audrey me? Well, she's certainly a lot like me, or at least a lot like the me I was back in those days. It's hard to live that life without becoming jealous or depressed when your lover can't be with you, or experiencing rampant schadenfreude when he can.
There are complexities to every relationship, true, but the mistress' life isn't one I would recommend to anybody who wanted to retain a full grip on their sanity or emotional well-being.
I would, however, recommend buying a copy of Audrey & Lawrence!
From "Marry Me:"
In that moment, looking into those tear-filled eyes, I knew I wanted to marry Lawrence Galloway. The thought had crept up on me before, but I’d always managed to force it out of my mind. After all, I was a career-mistress, or at least it would have been a career if I took any money for my tenderness.
Audrey the mistress: not just what I was, but who. My whole identity was wrapped up in that one dominating aspect of my personality. I was a woman who consorted exclusively with older men, married men. Those sad sorts raised in a bygone era, trapped in loveless, sexless relationships. My body, my admiration, helped them, made them feel good again, feel attractive and virile. What I gave them was a therapy, a rejuvenation. Of course, when Lawrence came along, I was smitten. There’d been no one else since.
But ringing in my ears were the words, “I’ll never ask you for anything.” In the beginning, I’d assured him, “as long as you keep no other mistresses, I’ll do anything you want. I’ll do more for you than you’ve ever dreamed, but I want to be the only other woman in your life.”
As I gazed into Lawrence’s sad eyes that April morning, I knew I was about to go back on my word. “Be my husband,” I said. My tone was utterly flat. It wasn’t a question, wasn’t a plea, it was a plan. “Leave Ruth and marry me. Be my husband.”
The words I’d promised never to utter all those years ago had now been spoken. Lawrence stared at me, seemingly awestruck. Maybe he would marry me. Maybe he loved me enough now.
Reaching out, Lawrence held my cheek, and his touch was the touch of God. It rang through my body like cathedral bells, alerting my cunt it was time for worship. He squinted and the teardrops fell like lava against my chest as he leaned his head toward mine.
Without a word, Lawrence laid a passionate kiss on my mouth. My eager tongue groped for his. It was hot, wet, forceful but yielding. With both hands on his head, I dragged his energy down through every centre along his spine. I dragged it to the very base of his being and squeezed his tight ass when I got there. Mirroring my pose, he scooped my cheeks into his hands, digging firm fingers into complicit flesh. We kissed and we kissed and we kissed. Hot, wet, yielding. That’s when his hard cock found me like a lonely traveller taking refuge from the storm.