“You really shouldn’t be here,” I gasp, my mouth tingling, my lips still deliciously bruised by the maleness of his kiss. Even as I say the words, though, he is pressing me back against the bed—my marriage bed—the iron bedstead creaking treacherously beneath our combined weight.
“Lie there,” he commands me.
I watch with a fusion of lust and panic as he steps back and begins to undress, dropping his clothes unconcernedly onto the bedroom floor. Soon, he is completely naked. He stands before me, confident, arrogant. I can’t stop myself from sweeping my eyes over the lightly tanned skin, the lean musculature, the mat of hair adorning his chest and his abdomen… the thick cock, already rising towards my gaze from its nestling place between his thighs.
I can scarcely believe that he is here, in my bedroom, inside the sanctity of my home. It was the one place where he couldn’t overwhelm and consume me, where I could find some sliver of respite from the power he exerted over me, from the burning desire he inspired in me.
Now my last sanctuary is gone too. Part of me is terrified by that thought, and yet part of me is equally thrilled.
My lover climbs back on the bed, straddling my legs; the beast about to pounce and devour and satiate. I’d not long arrived back from work when the front door bell rang, so I am still wearing my office attire: white blouse, black skirt, demure white lingerie. He pushes the hem of my skirt up my thighs until he has bared the lacy bands of my stocking tops and the creamy flesh that lies beyond them. He smiles; the smile of the libertine, the predator. It’s a smile that makes me shudder wantonly.
His hands track upwards, his knowing palms smoothing across my trembling belly and onto my breasts. He cups me through my blouse, gently, almost affectionately. I sigh contentedly as my muscles relax, uncoiling, my core becoming liquid and warm.
He begins unbuttoning the blouse, taking his time, his eyes never leaving mine. I know that I should find some way to stop him, and at the same time, I know that I can’t.
I can’t. I don’t want to.
He opens my blouse wide, immediately scooping it over my shoulders and drawing it down my arms. His smile deepens, becoming a fraction more lecherous. In response, I glance down the line of my body.
I hadn’t realized just how diaphanous the cups of my brassiere were when I’d dressed that morning. Like most mornings, I’d been chasing the clock, trying to claw back vital minutes I’d already lost. I’d simply reached into the drawer that held all of my white lingerie and pulled out the first set of brassiere and panties that came to hand. Now, my hardening nipples are clearly visible through the lace cups. My lover licks the edge of his mouth as his smouldering eyes scorch my body. Absently, I wonder how much my co-workers saw earlier. Instead of being mortified, I find myself excited by the prospect of the other men in the office being aroused by ephemeral glimpses of my breasts.
He reaches out, hooking his fingers into the tops of the bra’s cups. Slowly, he draws the fabric down, until it rests concertinaed beneath my bosom.
His palms are warm against my bare breasts, firm and yet soft. I feel strength restrained. I try to lift myself, to press myself into his grasp, as though to spear his hands with nipples that throb they are so taut, so unyielding. He squeezes again, harder this time, making my nipples stand prouder still as he shares his strength, moulding my yielding flesh to his grasp.
I sigh.
“You know that I’m going to fuck you now, don’t you?” he says. “I’m going to take you. Right here on this bed that you share with him.”
“No,” I whimper. “You mustn’t. You can’t.” My words carry some truth.
“Stop me then.”
His hands slip downwards, leaving my breasts mourning their tactile loss. He runs his palms down my flanks and onto my thighs. His palms become fingertips, drawing four parallel lines down the outside of my legs, past my knees and onto my calves. His touch hisses as it skims the nylon of my stockings, the electric sound sending a ripple of anticipation coursing down my spine. The bedroom is warm from the afternoon sun, yet my skin erupts into gooseflesh at the subtlety of his touch.
I close my eyes and bite down on my bottom lip so as not to betray my pleasure.
Reaching behind himself, he grasps my ankles and draws them up the bed, forcing me to bend at the knees and the hips, until I am open and exposed to him. He rests his hands atop the insides of my knees, holding me in that position. The bedstead creaks again as he raises himself slightly, and then I feel something hard pressing against the plumpness of my sex through the scantiness of my panties. I gasp as I realize that it is his cock. The realization makes me throb, makes the wetness within me blossom, and then he begins to thrust, slowly, the underside of his shaft pressing into my cleft through the cotton and lace, gliding back and forth against me, making my nerve-endings fire like tiny fireworks, a never-ending deluge of pleasure that grows as I become wetter and plumper and his shaft presses more deeply into me. As he extends his thrusts, his glans rides across the tingling nub of my clitoris, and the explosions of the fireworks grow, the noise of their explosions beginning to boom softly.
Now I can’t stop myself from groaning my pleasure aloud. Now I can’t stop myself. If I heard my husband’s key in the front door at this moment, I think that I might die… not from the fear of being caught in flagrante, but from the prospect of being denied having my lover’s hard, thick cock all the way inside me.
“Fuck me,” I say to him in a low voice.
“But you told me that I mustn’t, that I can’t.”
His tone is contrary, but I have lost the wherewithal to fence words with him. All that matters is the growing need inside me, the need to be filled, to feel complete.
My eyes find his once more. “Take me,” I say softly, my voice and my gaze overflowing with longing.
His mouth curls upwards triumphantly. I know that he would have taken me even without my surrender… but now his victory will be all the sweeter, knowing that I am his, that I am giving myself to him unconditionally, and in doing so, betraying my husband in this most sacrosanct of places, the space where I am meant to belong to him and him alone.
Now, even my guilt excites me. It flavours my desire in a way I’d never dreamed it could.
My lover reaches down and hooks his fingers into the side of my panties. With deliberation, he draws the damp cotton aside, finally baring me. I tremble at the sensation of air against my molten sex, at the sound of his grunt of approval and hunger.
And then at last—At last!—I feel his naked flesh on mine. I cry out, so close to orgasm already and he’s not even been inside me. I close my eyes so I can concentrate on the sensations of touch. His shaft glides though my cleft, lubricated by my lust. He pauses as his cockhead nestles at the entrance to my cunt, and then he is pushing forwards, easing inside me, and I am gasping, crying out as my most intimate flesh gives way before him, sheathing him, embracing him.
“Oh, yes!” I cry out, my head pressing back against the bed as I press my loins to meet his. Now he is all the way inside me, his laden balls hanging against the cheeks of my ass.
“You love the feeling of my cock filling you, don’t you?”
I nod, made mute by a wave of guilt at what I have done, at what I am doing.
“Say it,” he says.
I swallow. “I love it.”
He brushes the pad of his thumb across my clitoris and the explosion of sensation is exquisite and bewildering. “Oh fuck!” I whisper. “Oh fuck!”
His thumb withdraws. “Say it all,” he tells me, his voice firmer now.
“I love it,” I say again, and he brushes his thumb across my clit once more. “I fucking love the feeling of your big cock inside me, all the way, filling my cunt.” ‘Cunt’ is a word I never used before I met him. It had always felt dirty in my head, let alone in my mouth. He set out to change me from the beginning. He told me that he found vagina too medicinal for his tastes, pussy too whimsical, fanny too juvenile. “Cunt is honest,” he’d told her. “It doesn’t hide anything, and it doesn’t pretend to be something that it isn’t.” Now I feel like the word belongs to me, and any lingering salaciousness I feel at its use only serves to excite me.
“And what else do you love?”
I look up into his waiting eyes. “I love it when you come inside me,” I say in my wanton voice, my slut’s voice. “I love it when you come gallons, hot streaks of spunk flooding my cunt and my womb as you throb inside me, your come running over my cunt lips and down between the cheeks of my ass.”
He groans with satisfaction at the rawness of my words, at their candid intensity. He draws back from me, hesitating for a moment with the tip of his glans barely still inside me, and then he thrusts into the core of me once more. He doesn’t pause this time when he reaches the hilt; instead, he draws back again, beginning to thrust, his cadence measured, unhurried. All the time, his thumb strokes my clitoris, south to north, south to north, his caresses timed perfectly to blend with the movements of his cock as it pistons back and forth within the velvet clasp of my sex. He knows my rhythms so well. Soon, the tiny fireworks behind my eyes have been obliterated by explosions that rock my senses, and the orgasm that has threatened for so long finally overwhelms me. I cry out, the heat flushing through my face and my chest and my body spasming from top to toe.
“Oh fuck!” I gasp, grateful that we’ve left the windows closed tight, that the windows are double-glazed and close to soundproof.
Still he fucks me, not allowing me the chance to recover from my climax. He pauses in the strumming of my clitoris because he knows how hypersensitive I can be post-orgasm. Instead, he concentrates on his thrusts, his hands reaching up to cup my breasts as his strokes become more forceful. Already, I can tell how he’s losing his detachment, becoming less constrained in the way he is taking his pleasure. I look up into his face and see that the reserve, the confident arrogance, has been wiped from his features, washed away by his own rising passions.
“Yes,” I say greedily, expectantly. “Fuck me! Fuck me hard! Come inside me!”
“Deep inside you,” he groans.
I reach up, grasping him about the back of the neck with one hand. I pull his mouth down to mine.
“Deep inside. Deep inside my cunt,” I gasp and then I kiss him with the same fervor he kissed me with when he first arrived.
He groans lustily into my mouth, his speed increasing again. I feel his body tense against mine; the contrast is delicious, hard against soft, giver against receiver. I encircle his waist with my legs, increasing the depth of his thrusts, the pressure of his pubis against my clitoris.
“I’m coming again,” I cry, and I grind myself into him just as I feel his cock beginning to throb and pulsate.
He cries out with his own completion, pressing his mouth hard against mine as his seed erupts, as the warmth of his ejaculate bathes my secret flesh. He thrusts throughout his orgasm; even when I am sure that he is spent, he continues to thrust, pressing himself into me, and I reciprocate his efforts by squeezing out a third orgasm against his pubis.
His kisses are tender now, still passionate, but softer, lingering. The beast within him has been sated, quenched. Ironically, the lustful, wanton creature within myself—my inner slut, as I sometimes think of that part of my desire—is wide-awake. If there were time, I would lead him into the shower now, gently soap every inch of his body, rouse his body once more. But there is no time, not if we’re to avoid detection.
“You have to leave,” I say.
He doesn’t say anything right away, and for a few seconds, I fear that he is going to be difficult. Then he says, “I know.” He kisses the tip of my nose and slips out of me. I watch him walk into the en-suite and listen to him urinate. I make a mental note to make certain that the toilet seat is down before my husband arrives home.
The toilet flushes and then the basin taps run. I sit up, straightening my rumpled clothes as best I can; as soon as my lover has left, I’ll bury them in the laundry basket, mixing them in with the existing clothes. My husband is completely undomesticated, so there’s little danger of him picking up on the scent of my lover’s aftershave.
He comes out of the bathroom, patting his face dry with a towel. He dresses almost as quickly as he disrobed.
“Where did you park?” I ask.
“One street away.”
I nod appreciatively at his caution. “Can you go out the back, though? Just in case.”
It’s obvious that the prospect of leaving by the tradesman’s entrance isn’t pleasing to him, but he acquiesces all the same. As I’ve already determined, the beast is spent.
I lead him to the kitchen door. The back garden opens out onto parkland, and a path running behind the estate. It’ll be a short walk back to his car, and far more discreet than having him waltz smugly down my driveway.
He kisses me before he opens the door. “I’ll call you,” he says.
“I’ll be waiting.”
He turns and walks down the path that splits the garden in two without a single glance back.
I close and lock the kitchen door, then run upstairs and strip myself naked. I step into the shower and turn the temperature as high as I can bear. I wash myself thoroughly, a sense of remorse and disappointment running through me as I watch the last remnants of his seed flowing down the drain. As I dry myself in front of the full-length mirrored wardrobe, I check my face and neck for signs of betrayal. There are none. I sigh with relief.
I wrap myself in a soft cotton kimono and sit on the edge of the bed as I towel my hair. I hear the key turn in the front door and the sound of my husband putting down his briefcase and hanging up his coat.
“I’m home,” he calls out.
“Up here,” I answer.
My body is still alive with sensation. It’s like the after effect of an electric shock, a low thrum running through every part of me. It makes me feel alive.
His footsteps start ascending the stairs.
I wait, watching the open bedroom doorway. Then I undo the belt on my robe and open it wide. I position myself on the very edge of the bed with my thighs splayed. There is guilt at having betrayed my husband, and I must atone for that. There is need too—the need to reclaim my customary role, to restore equilibrium. But above both of those things, there is fire; the fire of desire that still burns within me, the fire that needs to be doused before my flesh can settle back into the mundaneness of my regular life.
And as my husband reaches the top of the staircase, I trail my fingertips along the insides of my thighs and smile.
