She looks as wonderful as ever, perhaps even better.  Her hair has been cut much shorter and styled differently.  He prefered it long, but  can see that it is chic and smart.  She has lost weight from six months ago, but her curves are always perfect geometry.  She has made a brave decision with her business, cutting loose from the part that was secure and launching herself into an uncertain but much more fulfilling sea.  She is working very hard, as she always has.

On the outside she seems calmer, less dependent, more confident despite her new circumstances.  She loves him deeply, but not as utterly or as desperately as she once did.  She does not belong to him but continues to write to him as You.  He is flattered by it.

Her ongoing and determined search for her ideal someone continues.  To his knowledge it has not yet borne fruit.  The bar is set high, as it should be.  She is very special. 

****

He looks much the same, perhaps a little more faded, a little older.  His silver hair is shorter too, somehow less romantic.  He has evenings to fill.  He has re-joined the gym.  He drives himself hard with his headphones turned up loud, drowning out his body’s cries for mercy. He has plans to write more and to practice his guitar but at the moment he spends his time reading, listening to music, and watching tv.  

When he is back in the family home it re-absorbs him, or possibly he is re-absorbing it.  Nature abhors a vacuum.  His work, strangely unchallenging given the role he has, bores him to seek a distraction.  He has considered, but not yet looked for, another submissive lover.  The time will no doubt come, but not for now.

He loves her still, and cannot help but watch over her, praising her triumphs, rationalizing her disappointments, giving her comfort and support.  He fears every new suitor and wants her to find herself a glorious future in one of them.  It is an unbearable paradox that sometimes robs him of sleep.

****

They see each other once a week.    They are trying to work out the nature and terms of their relationship when they meet.  It is a constantly evolving, changing, shifting shoreline that  is hard to predict or manage.  Their contact in between times is sporadic – a flurry of texts and then silences, a warm phone call almost every day.

His gentle nurturing and mentoring are the only remnants of the wonderful D/s dynamic that first inspired these pages.

They feel like lovers but can only be friends.  Happily they remain the best of friends.

There are fewer tears.  But there is far less joy.

Goodbye to those who have kindly followed our story.

Thank you to everyone who has ever commented. I did not comment back as I usually do, on the last two posts – only because there is so little else left to say – not because I do not value your lovely words.

And thank you to all those who have quietly shared this magical journey with Jenny and I. It has been a joy to know that, in a strange cyberspace way, we have not been alone. We are always amazed by the many page views and especially humbled by the number of subscribers – I could not have imagined it to be a story that would appeal.

It is highly unlikely that I will post again in the Love Affair Diary. As I said, I do not want to write of pain and sorrow, even though there is still much happiness between Jenny and I. (We had a glorious, golden, unforgettable day just yesterday).

But one should never say never.  Who knows?

I will leave the diary intact here. It will perhaps give she and I a little solace, and will remind of us how we were when we look back sometime a long way off in the unimaginable future. So very special.

I will say goodbye now to all of you on both our behalf.  We wish you happiness in your lives.

The words of this song by Snow Patrol are not quite apt – because actually I hope I will know if Jenny is happy. I hope she will always be my dearest friend. But the last verse is perfect – it is exactly what I want for her.  And it is a beautiful sad song with which to close the diary.

Farewell.

I am not going to write here of the whys and wherefores.  Only to say that, if there is blame, it is all to be laid upon me.

But we are not apportioning blame.  We have both loved so deeply, so purely, so bravely.  We have known such joy, such beauty, such wonder.  Yet we have both suffered for our love.  We will suffer more in the days and months ahead.  Of that there is no doubt. 

I do not wish to write of suffering, and sorrow, and sadness, and the deep, aching melancholy of loss.

Because what we have is golden, glorious, magical, breathtaking, amazing.   It is unique.  In our lives, which were ordinary, we have created an epic romance, a fairy story, a wondrous fable.  It is a romantic love, a unique love, a sacred love.  Its light is blinding, its heat is extreme. 

It is a legendary fire.

It has consumed us utterly and completely.  It is  impossibly, stunningly, awe-inspiringly bright.

It still has a little while left to burn – intense and searing.  A week or so. 

And then, as lovers, we shall part.  Becoming again two where once we were one.

But from that fire, from that incandescence, from that inferno, from that molten core, a friendship will rise like a phoenix.  

A friendship that is as special as the love from which it  is forged.  A friendship that is strong.  A friendship that will endure, that will support, that will comfort, that will be a warm, safe haven when the cold seas and dark clouds fill sad eyes with tears.  A friendship for all days, for all seasons.  A friendship for the best and for the worst of times.

A friendship that is forever.  A friendship that is for always.

A friendship for eternity.

Because this love will never die.

They have realised that …

Despite the sheer heaven of skin on skin, the perfect velvet nights, the sleepy, gentle mornings…

Despite the intimate, candid, unguarded sharing of secrets and thoughts, desires, and dreams, the fantasies given erotic life, the worship of each others bodies, the romance, the beauty …

Despite the joyful laughter over nothing and everything, the tender embraces public and private, the soft kisses that stop time …

Despite the gorgeous music, the elegant clothes, the glorious concerts, the discovering of art and theatre, the lovely restaurants, the experimental cooking, the countless glasses of wine chinked together …

The huddled together Winters, the golden Autumns, the expansive Summers, the hopeful Springs …

Despite the magical balloon ride, suspended over her city and beyond …

Despite the stolen holiday by the sea, smiling in the rain, arm in arm wandering along the ancient cliffs …

Despite the everyday moments made unique and different, lost in each other …

Despite words of comfort exchanged, of encouragement given, of tears wiped away, of hugs and kisses, of fun in everything, and electronic messages to maintain endless contact …

Despite the Dominance and submission …

Despite the love, rare,  pure, shining, special, unforgettable …

Despite it all …

It would probably have been better if they had never met.

Before they left for the show he had stripped her naked, parted her legs and lowered his mouth to her delicious pussy.  He had teased, licked, sucked and kissed.  He had run the tip of his tongue around and inside her delicate folds,  He adored her taste.  She had taken him in her mouth, making him even harder as she enveloped him beautifully with her lips.  He had fucked her then, sliding his cock inside her, feeling her body close around him.  He had  held her face between his hands and looked into her lovely wide eyes as his hips moved against hers.  They had kissed with passion.

The evening’s entertainment at the theatre is perfect.  They laugh together at the humour of the women on stage, and admire their intelligence and vocal skill.  In the darkness he sees her eyes shining and her face wreathed in smiles and gorgeous with glee.  It is two hours of uproarious, irreverent, topical comedy and musical delight.  They leave holding hands, with spirits high.

They eat a late supper in a restaurant nearby.  They sip wine and talk about the show and her business, and nothing sad.  They do not worry about the lateness of the hour and work the next day.  A taxi whisks them back to her apartment for mugs of tea, a square of chocolate and a last sleepy, naked embrace .

Evenings don’t come much better.

Last night we’d enjoyed  a pre-theatre supper in an unfamiliar restaurant, nestled together in a booth.  We separately ate mushroom risotto generous with parmesan and crab spaghetti, feisty with chilli.  We swapped plates at one stage and swapped them back again when I realised that I preferred my choice.  Jenny indulged in dessert, while I sipped a brandy. 

Replete, we hurried to the theatre, arriving as the performance bell rang. 

The play was written by Edward Albee and performed by a semi professional company in a small Arts Centre in Jenny’s city – an intimate and oak beamed venue where the audience sits closely packed on upholstered bench seats.  The  story is a sad one – age, love, friendship, and how one compromises and survives in family and friendships.  As with all Albee’s work, it is wordy and clever. 

During the interval we wandered around the small gallery next to the bar, admiring  paintings and showing each other off.

 The themes on stage were not light or uplifting but the acting was sound and the actors engaging.  We were so happy to share the experience, hands held throughout, exchanging smiles in the darkness.  Jenny drove me the short distance back to her apartment, made shorter by our lively conversation.

Later in bed she was so tired that she almost fell asleep in my arms.  Her days are not easy.  She has much to mourn, and not just her father.  She tries to remain bright.

She whispered goodnight with her  lashes closing gorgeously over her beautiful eyes.

In the morning those same lovely eyes were swimming with tears as her fears and her sorrows once again took hold.

The evening seems like an interlude.

We had been out to our current favourite restaurant on a night sulky with rain and brooding with fat clouds.  Lights reflected in rippling puddles.  We were seated upstairs served by young staff with attractive French accents. Jenny indulged in moules and fries while I enjoyed a chunky bouillabaisse and overdosed on crusty bread, mopping up the excellent fish soup.  The bottle of red was no match for our thirst.

Jenny was wearing new black trousers, deliciously tight and hugging her buttocks, thighs and calves with reverence.  Her magnificently defined bum was crying out to be spanked.   As soon as we were back in the apartment and the front door had closed, I stripped her down to her stripy black and white knickers

I turned her to face the large mirror in her main room, and watched her expression in the reflection as I ran my hands over her belly, breasts and neck.  She tilted her head back, baring her thoat in a gesture of submission.  Taking her extraordinary nipples between my fingers I squeezed them hard, and tugged them upwards.  She gasped in pain.

‘Harder? I asked her. 

‘Harder.’ She whispered, and moaned as the pressure increased

‘Harder?’

And although she could hardly bear it, she confirmed.  I watched her reflected face contort.  I stroked her and she studied my hands as they moved over her.

I led her into her study.  The faint smell of freshly cut timber still hangs vaguely resinous in the air.  The stylishly fitted wood furniture is rich and dark and beautifully grained.  It is contrasted by  lime green doors and drawer facings that look elegant, bold and modern.  The wide expanse of her desk-top fills the corner against the window.

I bent her forwards over it and, with her gorgeous arse at my mercy, I spanked her without warm-up or ceremony.  I instructed her to count down the strokes.  They were sharp, stinging slaps, full of vicious bite.  She took them well and without need of further restraint, but there was pleading in her voice as she reached the lower numbers on each cheek. 

I turned her round and tugged down her panties.  She lay on her back on the new surface, her knees bent, her thighs parted.  I undressed quickly, already hard in my jeans. 

I thrust my cock into her sweet pussy.  She was at the ideal height.  I  felt her encompass me, hot and wet.  I could feel her heels dancing against my sides as I began to drive into her, holding her hips to give me increased penetration.  She caressed my lower belly with her fingers.

It was when she began to stroke her own breasts that my climax made me shudder joyfully.

It is not perhaps a working practice that the constructors had envisaged for Jenny in her new business environment.

But nevertheless it is perfectly designed for fucking..

 I watch as your hair is cut, your eyes on me as scissor blades dance silver about your head.  I pour you chilled white wine and sip mine as the dryer hums.

 Your voice is uneven with grief as you make promised calls.  You press the numbers with your head resting on my shoulder.

 We cook ingredients jointly provided – mussels, prawns, squid, garlic, cherry tomatoes, linguine, parsley and chilli flakes. We eat as candle flames dance to our shared music.  My hand finds yours and makes it a willing captive on the cool glass table.

 A film fills the rest of our evening, unfamiliar language explained in sub titles beneath.  We punctuate its journey with the luxurious comfort of Irish coffee, whiskey hot in the throat. There are rationed chocolates, guilty but meltingly good.

 I explore your glorious body lazily as the plot progresses. Your fingers unbuckle my belt.  It is a gentle, tender, quiet intimacy as the on-screen tension mounts.

 I climb into bed beside you. You are lovely.  I lower my mouth to yours.  Sweet kisses, as soft as falling autumn leaves on a lawn.

 We forget the world and all our sorrows as we sleep.

 In the still of night there is only each other.

He appraises her joyfully in the taxi.  He admires the sweetness of her small, high breasts, proud in her thin top, her buttocks tightly clad, her hair hanging  lustrous on the shoulder of her leather jacket. 

He takes her hand and they shiver down a different road on the other side of her city to a restaurant she has chosen.  It might have been in Istanbul, with its eastern architecture, its arching geometry, and its dusky waiters in harem pants.  Yet its menu is tapas, echoes of Madrid. 

He unintentionally chooses most of the dishes.  He is glad she enjoys what he enjoys.  He listens to her conversation and regales her with his own.  He is impressed by her intelligence and her ability to learn.  He finishes the last of the food because her tiny but yearning tummy is full.

He hurries her through the noisy dark to the place where the concert is.  They arrive perfectly on time, becoming part the waiting, standing audience.  He feels her body move against his as the opening chords fill the hall.  It is a performance  by two young american women from the deep south who deserve a bigger audience than they have gained, and no doubt will win it soon.  The music is full of female harmonies and softer points of view. 

He smiles at her excitement and happiness.

He is pleased as the sound soars around them and she nestles closer in to him.  He gently moves his thigh between her legs.  He slides his hands inside her clothes to caress her smooth skin.  He feels her fingers on his own warm body.  He knows they have become oblivious to the crowd as their lips meet.

He adores the way her eyes sparkle and shine.  He wraps his arms around her.  He likes the taste of her lips.

During the closing numbers he manoeuvres her in front of him, her back pressed into his front, bum to groin, her head tilted backwards onto his shoulder, her hair silky against his cheek.

He knows she is special.

He scans the street for a taxi when the doors open onto a chilly night.

He lounges beside her later, in her warm, welcoming apartment as the newscasters share events. 

He is delighted when he makes her laugh.

He holds her as tightly as he possibly can, afraid of her breaking, when she takes the phone call that tells her that her father has just died.