101 Erotic Nights

The Sheherazade Diaries

THE SECRET DIARISTS

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

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HarperImpulse an imprint of

HarperCollinsPublishers

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www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2015

Copyright © The Secret Diarists 2015

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Cover design by Isabella Ashford

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available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

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the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to

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entirely coincidental.

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Ebook Edition © March 2015 ISBN: 9780008140069

Version 2015-03-13

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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.

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