0 comments/ 3517 views/ 0 favorites Fever Pitch By: alexcarr My baby, she sent some pictures on her mobile phone. Okay - so we love each other and that is what we do. I look at each so carefully posed shot and relish the feelings they submit. The one in tight jeans - so good to see, she drives me crazy, for my baby has a rear to fight for - on the beaches and in the air as Churchill said. In my view there are no others can compare. Excuse my being frank but you see many bums now looking obese and gross and coarse. Looking like the back of a shire horse. But my baby is the Wow! factor with a capital W and I could never tire of her that's true. She treats me to a relish of how she looks in underwear - I just sit there and constantly stare. as I feel myself grow in my hand and I am the happiest guy in the land Just this day she has sent the best of all, a very extremely sexy look in her hot red tie-on thong There is nothing to match it in my book My masculinity grows to fever pitch, in the following picture she's undone the tie. I just have to squeeze now and tease my hardness back with a deep sigh. It looks so lovely, so divine and delicious and wonderful My mind is set on what I want to do MMM! Excuse me concentrating - that white thigh so waiting to be famished. Wondering about the mystery of her sex, how she looks beneath the redness of that so hot red thong I am in a veritable fever now, sweat begins to run from my brow. I just cant hold back I need her fuck so much .And still the bitch teases me with another picture, this time her thong just covering her femininity. I can see almost the rim of that wet pussy I so much need to explore and neat fuck I feel the throb grow and grow. OMG! I just can't stand anymore I will take her anywhere, in the bed, across the table, on the floor. My cock is full to the brim, throbbing and pulsating - longing to enter that which is hidden The fresh taste of her fuck, her warmth and her deep French kisses embroil my soul and I just have to reach my goal - I can't hold back any more so excuse me, I have to see to the job in hand. I am on the beach, on the sand, with my baby through and through I know what I have to do... I imagine she is there with me, I touch her flesh as her kiss grows deeper in my mouth, her tongue sucks my tongue and instinctively my fingers walk downwards, along the line of her beautifully rounded femininity and I go just a little further to sense her response. I feel the heat of her breath as her kiss still deepens and know that she wants me to go further. Eyes closed and incensed by her hot moving kiss I feel that which I have wanted when seeing her pictures so very much.. It feels so very silky through her thing and there is a little moistness there and I know she want me as badly as I want her. To show me her wanting I feel her hand grasp me so firmly as my fingers intrude underneath the seam of her red thong, I find myself coming away from her mouth with an arduous downward appalling to take that so gorgeous and teasing wet hot pussy into my mouth and then I am sucking the pussy I have wanted for so long, my cock is reeling for it now, I ask her to jerk it off, to be rough with it, to do what she wants and she certainly takes heed of that as I feel the touch of her teeth around the head of my throbbing cock, sucking me so wonderfully and hungrily. Now the purpose of all those cock teasing pictures sent over the mobile phone come to fruit as we enjoy that which we have been waiting for. No more wanking sounds over the phone, this is for real, I am so very much besotted by my baby that my concentration fixes and I am in heaven, the touch, the scent and the taste of my woman combined set me on a magical trip to paradise when I feel the satisfaction her warm deep fuck provides and then the ultimate to complete our new relationship. This has to be the ultimate as we enjoy each other to the full. No holds barred as we explore and discover all that we both like to do with each other, and the true and wonderful variety that besets my deepest ever fantasies, with my baby all those fantasies are now for real and at last I feel a real man, pleasing a real woman! I have no further need for the pictures, the real thing is perfection. No more wanking and looking at what maybe, now I am looking at what is. Fever Pitch The hallway was silent as Abby stepped off the elevator. Normally the air between the elevator doors and her apartment was thick with the constant thump of Jess's music seeping through the walls and causing all that was glass to shudder. Abby took a deep relieved breath and smile to herself. Plump sensuous lips caused a small dimple to flash momentarily on her cheek. Home alone then, she thought to herself, fantastic! Unlocking her door Abby stepped through and paused, as always, to take in the light pouring through the full length windows of the open plan loft. Jess might not be the most considerate of flatmates ever but the woman sure knew how to put a room together. Colour drew the eye to various photos and clusters of furniture spread throughout the open space, and Abby was once again counting her lucky stars for finding the ad on the notice board. Dropping her book bag on the marble kitchen counter as she walked past, Abby mused how best to spend her quiet time. Jess was hardly intrusive and even her loud music blaring out for hours on end, barely bothered. It was Jess herself who was a problem for her new flatmate, for reasons that surprised her. Jess was cocky and sharp witted, with a humour as dry as any desert. She was unapologetically argumentative and opinionated, all the classic behaviours that normally set Abby's teeth on edge. Instead she found herself watching her flatmate a little too closely, and thinking of her a little too much. Jess's morning ritual of breakfast in her sleepwear, which unfortunately appeared to be a pair of boy shorts and a form fitting vest had Abby walking on egg shells and staring in fascination at the tiling behind the kettle each morning. It might have been a few years since the last time she was crushing on or involved with a woman, but Abby knew herself well enough to know that if she was not careful about Jess she might find herself in deep water once again. The opportunity to let her guard down while at home was a welcome relief, and Abby decided to make the best of if, for as long as it lasted. She started off down the passage toward her room, slipping out of her jumper as she walked. Visions for a full to over flowing bubble bath and some quality alone time dealing with her current level of sexual frustration loomed large, and Abby shook her head at her current predicament. On the up side Jess was proving perfect fantasy fodder, but on the down side Abby had to speak to her day in and day out knowing that they would always remain a fantasy. And had fallen trap already to the embarrassment of giving her imagination free roam, over Jess's curves and dips, swells and taunt muscles only to "come back to earth" to find the subject of her thoughts watching her with those intriguingly mysterious eyes. If anything she was going to have to learn how to not blush in this flat, at the very least. As she turned the handle of her door Abby headed noise coming from the room a little further down the hall. It sounded like someone crying out, but Jess must be out seeing as the stereo was still off. Abby left her door ajar and walked slowly towards Jess's room. There had been some break-ins in the building lately but the girls had not been to worried as the elevator didn't travel freely all the way to their floor. All Abby needed was to interrupt a thief mid heist! There was another noise emitted from Jess's room, this time sounding more like a throaty moan, and Abby felt heat flash through her body at the thought of what she might actually be about to interrupt. Thus far Jess had never brought a guy home, or at least not while Abby was there. But Abby had skipped the last class of her day so Jess might not actually expect her for a full two hours. Pressing her back against the wall next to the slightly ajar door Abby fought with her conscience of being a peeping tom versus her raging curiosity. A conflict that was brought to a speedy conclusion by the sound of breaking glass. Without thought to her own safety Abby rushed through the door and stopped short at the sight before her. No clumsy thief or an irate Jess interrupted in the midst of a noisy sex act. Just Jess herself, sprawled across her bed, in the normal incredibly small boy shorts and this time a rather small tee, which was riding high on her torso, offering a hint of the bare swell of her breast. One hand still lay on the bedside table where the now shattered glass must have been standing. Water and broken glass lay at the side of the bed, and Abby navigated these carefully as she approached the bed. Jess's breathing was laboured and her sleep restless. A slight sheen of sweat coated her face and body, and the sheets lay in a twisted mess between her legs. As Abby stood next to the bed, undecided at what to do, Jess whimpered again in her sleep. Thinking she was having a nightmare of sorts, Abby reached out a hand to her cheek hoping to gently wake the sleeping goddess. Though Jess turned into her hand with a soft sigh, she didn't stir more than that and Abby was shocked at how incredibly hot she felt. The woman was literally burning up with fever. A quick glance at the bedside table confirmed illness. Abby picked up one of the pill canisters and read the label. Pain medication for an inner ear infection. No wonder Jess was both home, and asleep at this time in the afternoon. Abby quickly rose and went into the en suite bathroom where she wet a wash-cloth and took in back to the bed. Without really thinking of the propriety of he actions she began bathing the cool cloth over Jess's heated skin. Soon even the wet cloth felt warm to the touch and Abby went to wet it once more with cool water. When she returned Jess had turned her face away, so Abby set about running the cloth over her slender neck and exposed collarbone. Jess let out a moan that sounded close to a hum of contentment and Abby tried to not picture running her tongue over the supine woman, in place of the cloth. Running the cool cloth along the tender skin of her inner arm brought a rash of goose bumps to her skin, which Abby trailed with her eyes to the now hard nipples showing under the material of the tee. Dropping her eyes to her exposed abdomen Abby set about gently bathing the taunt flesh, paying extra attention to the hollow dip Jess had between her abs. Abby knew the woman was ripped but this was a surprise. Running the cloth up, Abby wished she could drop it completely and rather run her wanton fingertips along the underside of Jess's full breasts. Absorbed as she was in her administrations it took Abby a while to notice that Jess's breathing had sped up even more. Tearing her eyes off the smooth exposed skin she was tenderly cooling and lusting over Abby raised her eyes to Jess's face. And fell dead still as she found herself caught in Jess's gold-flecked, green gaze. Jess watched her intently, with those clear unblinking eyes, that always set Abby's skin tingling. With a pounding heart and feeling very foolish for being caught practically eye fucking her flatmate Abby started to rise, wanting very much to flee the apartment, never to return. As she started to withdraw her hand that still clenched the now almost bone dry cloth, Jess's hand shot out to grip her wrist. For what felt like an eternity, but could be no more than a few seconds the two women started at each other, and Abby felt the flush travelling up her cheeks. Without a word Jess drew Abby's hand back down to her body. Abby started at her own hand for the length of two heart beats before she slowly began dragging the cloth over the pale underside of her breasts once more. Jess sighed softly and released her grip on Abby's wrist, only to tug at her tee and expose her breasts fully for Abby's treatment. Abby swallowed audibly, bringing a soft chuckle for Jess. "Lets both stop pretending we don't wan this, shall we? Does that make it easier for you?" Jess's voice was husky with sleep and lust and Abby had to fight back a moan. As long as she had hoped to hear these words from Jess, she had never thought it possible. Opening her mouth to shoot back some witty replace, Abby found herself stumped. Instead she bent her body down and gently closed her lips over Jess's hard nipple. Jess's back immediately arched into her touch and with a moan she buried her hand in Abby's dark hair, securing her there. Abby pulled her body further onto the bed as she gently nibbled and licked Jess's sensitive nipples. Settling her jean clad legs between Jess's she set about properly adoring this body that was being offered to her. Running her tongue over all the dips and swells Jess had to offer, she was lost in the taste for her skin, mingled with the faint lingering salt of her sweat. So hot, her skin was so hot. Jess allowed her flatmate free reign for a few moments before pulling her away from her belly and up to her waiting lips. Their kiss was a fevered and hot as Jess had been feeling moments earlier, and both woman moaned their appreciation. Sliding her hands down Abby's back she griped the hem of her top and began trying to pull it off. Abby quickly settled matter by raising up and removing it herself, followed swiftly by her bra, then removed Jess's tee. Jess tried to pull her back down for a searing kiss but Abby quickly scooted away. "Wait." She climbed off the bed and quickly kicked off her shoes and out of her jeans and socks, careful of the glass, before she clambered back to Jess. The feel of their bare skin was intoxicating and both women ran their hands frantically over their surprise lover. Abby pinned Jess beneath her and griped her wrists to her sides. Having her captive allowed her to trail lips and teeth freely down her neck and collarbone, pausing to lather her tongue into the dip there, feeling Jess's frantic heart beat beneath her lips. Forgetting her need for control she released Jess's hands in order to use hers to caress every inch of skin available to her. Jess, elated to have free movement once again cupped Abby's full beasts and thumbed her nipples into even harder buds. Abby swiftly trailed wet kissed down Jess's gut, pausing only to swirl her tongue briefly into Jess's navel, causing her to suck in a breath and clench her muscles involuntarily. With a smug smile Abby seat up and hooked her thumbs in the waist band of those damn little shorts that had been taunting her for weeks. Quickly she dragged them down Jess's incredibly long legs, contemplating for a moment kisses her way back up them, inch by tortuously slow inch. Before finally burying her tongue deep in Jess's already drenched cunt. One look at Jess who was pushing herself up towards her in impatient lust scrapped that idea. Hopefully she would get that opportunity later. Jess no sooner brought herself upright, before she collapsed back on the pillows. Tossing the underwear aside Abby quickly brought herself face to face with Jess, concerned that she had pushed her companion too much, in her fragile state. "Are you OK?" Jess opened her eyes, nodding slowly. "Yeah, just dizzy for a sec." "Do you want to stop, I mean you're sick..." "Don't you dare." Jess's voice left no room for argument and she sealed the end of the conversation with a greedy kiss, that left no doubt in Abby's mind that she was up for the challenge. "I'll be gentle on you." Abby murmured when she finally broke away again. "No. No, please," Jess begged in an anguished voice, "fuck me, har.." The remainder of her request was lost in a throaty moan as Abby buried three fingers deep inside her moist haven, and immediately flexed and spread them, filling Jess as much as possible. Jess pulled her legs up, allowing Abby in as deep as possible, and she took the invitation to heart, sliding her fingers in and out with near brutal force. Jess's increasing moans worked their own magic on Abby. How she had longed to hear these sounds from this woman, and now was going to finger fuck her until no sound was possible. Jess frantically drew Abby's nipple into her mouth and sucked her with a seemingly insatiable hunger. As Jess's moans and gasps became peppered with incomprehensible begging that left no doubt in Abby's mind how close the other woman was to orgasm, Abby brought her free hand down and dragged her thumb over and around Jess's engorged clit. Abby felt the first wave travel Jess's body as her walls clamped down on her talented fingers, holding her captive as she drank in the sight of this glorious woman, in rapture. Jess creased breathing as her orgasm hit, and she arched bow tight off the bed, as tremor after tremor rocked her body. Abby ceased rubbing her sensitive clit and began to drop soothing kissed up Jess's body as the other woman wound down. Once she finally collapsed back on the bed in the spent aftermath of bliss Abby gently removed her finger and brought them up to her lips. As sweet as nectar, no doubt. Jess slowly turned her head towards her, as if moving through thick molasses. "Well," she gasped, still short of breath, "that's one way to break a fever." Abby grinned at her pulled her close. "Yes, but now you must rest. We can pick this up again, once you have recharged?' Jess's reply was to throw a leg over Abby, pinning her close before she fell back into an exhausted sleep. Fever Pitch It was just a twenty-four hour flu, but it was lousy timing. It came on in the morning, but somehow I got through the meeting. It was important. I had already spent the best part of a week working on the design. Six bedrooms, all with en-suites, three reception rooms, a dining room, office, kitchen, utility room, conservatory, triple garage and a pool. It would cost the best part of two million to build. If the client decided to go with my scheme, I could charge around two hundred thousand. All of it profit, less the rental for my one man and my wife as part time secretary office space. I could tell he liked it. The money was not a problem. Saudi oil would provide that. He was one of the thirty something year old Saudis who liked life in London and who wanted his own place instead of staying at a hotel. A run down property in Richmond had provided the site. He wanted modern, so I had designed modern. "It's good," he said. "I like it. I like it too much. It gives me a problem. Now I have to choose. Another architect has been working up an alternative and I like his design as well. It will be difficult to choose between you." It was the first that I had heard of another architect competing for the work, but I played it cool, in spite of beginning to feel a little feverish. He checked his watch. "I have someone to meet in half an hour," he said. "But we can discuss your proposal over dinner this evening if you are free. The Mayfair Hilton? Seven thirty? Bring your wife. Make it an evening to enjoy, not just business." It was a Wednesday, and we had no other plans. Laura would be only too happy to have dinner at the Hilton. I confirmed. He got up from the sofa we had been sharing as we reviewed the designs. We shook hands. He thanked me for my work, and left. I phoned Laura. I told her how the meeting had gone, and about dinner that evening. She was fine about it. I shivered. Maybe it was just a sugar low. I went for lunch. After lunch, I went straight home. It was not a sugar low. I was not too good. I had thought I would just take a nap, and get myself feeling better for the evening. I went to bed around three, and slept immediately. From then on, everything became a blur. I remember Laura checking on me, saying I would need to make my excuses. There was no way I could go like that. I tried to argue, but realised that if I did not have the strength to persuade Laura I could cope, there was no way I could sell my design as we discussed it over dinner. I would have to take the hit if I lost the job. That was life. Laura found the client's number and made the call to let him know we were not coming. After that, I remember Laura showering, drying her long black hair with her drier, even using it on her pubic hair, as she always did. She kept it wild, and toweling it was not enough for her high standards. Then she started dressing. Saying something about his suggesting she came on her own. She would try to keep him sweet. In my haze, I tried to work out of those were really stockings that she was rolling up her legs. Whether she had put on a bra before she slipped the black dress over her head, I could not be sure. At some stage she kissed me, saying she would see me later. I dropped back into a sleep, dreaming. It was not just her bra I could not remember seeing. I could remember the stockings, black, with a fine diamond mesh that let her white complexion show through. I remembered a black suspender belt, but not panties, or a thong. I remembered her back had been to me when she had put on the dress, her back pure milk white, her shoulder blades, spine and rib-cage well defined, her buttocks perfect globes of white, which meant she had not been wearing panties, and although I could remember the suspender belt around her waist, I could not recall the stretched back-string of a thong. No. Definitely she had not worn a bra. Not with that dress. Besides she had bent over me as she had kissed me goodbye and I had seen her nipples graze the satin. At least she would make an impression on the guy. She had made an effort. I appreciated that. What time it was when she got back, I really had no idea. It was late. I knew that. I had been sleeping, and was only vaguely aware of her coming into the bedroom in the dark, using the bathroom, sliding naked under the duvet. The red digital display had said something twenty three as I drifted in and out of fevered sleep. It might have been a two. Maybe it was a five. I was not sure. It had to have been a two, or was there a one in front, making it the two of twelve. Dinner does not last that long. Getting back by tube would only have been forty minutes. After midnight would be late, but made more sense than after two in the morning, and after five would be ridiculous. When I say a twenty four hour flu, in the morning I thought it would be less than that. I woke a little after nine, feeling so much better. The fever had nearly gone. I could almost think again. At least Laura had gone to the dinner. I would call him later in the day to apologise again, find out how things lay. I got up, leaving Laura asleep in the bed, put on my dressing gown, and went down to make some coffee. Laura's bag was on the table. Just a clutch purse, shiny black leather to match her dress. Then I remembered which dress it was that she had worn, the one that I bought her for our special evenings, not just backless, but with the sides bare as well. Only the front of the dress rose in a curve on either side from where the back skimmed the groove between her buttocks, encasing her breasts, or trying to, narrowing to her neckl, and held there by a gleaming black leather collar. The cut, and the fullness of Laura's breasts, meant that at the sides,the undercurves of her breasts were bared, which was why she had not worn a bra. Across her back, and at the sides, it would have spoiled the look. That exposure of her breast flesh at the sides, even if her wide areoles were concealed, was why she had never worn the dress with friends or relatives, but only where we were unlikely to be known. I tried to remember what time had she got back? I really could not remember if it had been a two or a five on the digital clock, or if there had been a one beside the two, or just an empty space. The bed had seemed so empty without her there beside me. But just when her warmth had joined me, I did not know. Still taking in that she had worn that dress to meet him, I poured boiling water on the coffee, put the top on the cafetiere, waited for a bit, then got impatient for the caffeine, pressed the plunger, and poured some of the strong, black coffee into a china mug. I needed it. That was when Laura's bag vibrated. Just once. A text. At first I was going to ignore it. It was Laura's phone, which I never checked. Except, just possibly, it was my client with a message about the project. Maybe he had come to a decision. Laura was still asleep. I ought to check. Just in case. I unzipped the bag. Her phone was obvious. There was only room for the phone, a small make up bag, her wallet, and some tissues. I swiped my finger on the screen. She did not use a code. The text just opened. I was right. It was the client. He wanted to arrange another meeting. But with Laura. "Come to my hotel at 3.00pm," it read. "Bring the contract. I will sign it if I am as fully satisfied as you made me feel last night." It was obviously the effect of the virus on my brain, but in retrospect my thought processes were painfully slow. Things were looking good. The meeting over dinner had obviously gone well. I put the phone back in Laura's bag, sipped my coffee, and thought that I would need to get in to my office, print out the standard contract, and have it ready. I might not be feeling as good as I would have liked, but I could manage that. I sat at the table, waiting for the caffeine to kick in. My brain slowly started to engage. I took Laura's phone out of her bag again. Read the text again. What did he need to be satisfied with? It was a standard contract for architectural services. Ten percent of the overall costs. Three tenders from reputable contractors to ensure best price on the building costs. Nothing unusual. Fully satisfied. As fully satisfied as she had made him feel last night. Satisfied how? What had she done to satisfy him? It is strange the way that even when you are recovering from illness, your cock can function normally. Mine was starting to rise, anticipating what my brain was still working out. Laura had dressed to impress. Was it possible that she had undressed to impress as well? Five years of marriage, great sex, great life together, totally trusting, no hint of anything going on elsewhere, my business ticking over nicely, we could use the money from this deal but we do without it too. There was no reason for Laura to have done anything more than have dinner with him. If the design alone was insufficient, there was no need for her to offer anything else to seal the deal I stared at the phone. He wanted to be fully satisfied again. By my wife, who was asleep upstairs, and who had got back at God knows what time last night. But it still could just have been dinner, nothing more. Of course they would have talked about other things, casual conversation, not just the design itself, or my ability to deliver the project. That did not mean that anything else had happened. Besides, he knew that I was ill, so asking Laura to bring the contract for him to check was natural. At least I told myself it was. But my cock was still rock hard. Laura was still sleeping soundly when I left for the office. By then it was well after ten. I had had two mugs of coffee, shaved, showered and dressed. Laura had not so much as opened her eyes. Normally she got by on seven hours. That day she lay, tucked deep under the duvet, just her nose, forehead, and lustrous hair visible against her pillow. Let her sleep. I could call her from the office at mid-day, to wake her up. Give her time to get herself together. I could be back by one, with the contract for her to bring to Mayfair. I turned on the desk top computer, waiting for it to boot up, picturing him sitting right beside me on the sofa that was on the other side of my desk, when we had looked over the plans spread out on the large coffee table I had bought for the office just for that purpose. Less formality of a sofa, at a coffee table. He was lean, but you could tell that he kept in shape. Square shoulders filling out his shirt, his jacket on a chair back. Slender waist, gleaming black leather belt, black trousers with razor sharp creases, immaculately polished shoes. He knew how to take care of his things. Or he had someone do it for him. Maybe he had a wardrobe full of suits, shirts, belts, shoes, continually replenished. Some of these guys only wore things once, and threw them away. In Laura's case, he seemed to be making an exception. He wanted to see her a second time. The image flashed through my head. Laura, spread-eagled on his bed, her hour glass figure naked apart from her stockings and suspender belt, as he moved between her legs, his cock hard. Do not ask me why I pictured his cock with an upward curve, circumcised of course. No body hair, not even at his groin. Something about body hair being unclean, especially there. My own cock hardened at the thought of his cock head finding its way to Laura's entrance. The screen came on, ready for use. I moved the mouse to open up my documents, found the folder for standard contracts and clicked on the one I needed. It was just the virus, playing games with me. Putting thoughts in my head that I could do without. I needed to focus on the job in hand. I eased my hard cock to one side, giving it room. The file opened. I took the hard copy folder with the design work and client details from the corner of my desk and found what I needed. I entered his name, his address in Saudi, and his hotel details for correspondence in the United Kingdom. I put the necessary dates in the right sections. Inserted the references to the design plans, using the numbers and dates for each of the A1 sheets. The contract already specified ten percent. And three tenders. I put the estimated cost as the two million British pounds. What was that film called? The one with Robert Redford, paying a million to sleep with Demi Moore. Another guy's wife. Not that Redford cared. And the guy had agreed to let him have twenty four hours with his wife. For one million. Ten percent of two million is hardly a million. Two hundred thousand. Although Redford had paid in dollars. Mine was pounds. Not that I had agreed. Not that it had happened. If it had been Redford's million, what would I have said? For just one night with Laura. Not with Redford making love to her, but a slender, wealthy guy from Saudi who I had met several times and shaken hands with. Not just one night. Another afternoon as well. This afternoon. The answer could only be, had to be, not for all the money in the world, let alone in oil rich Saudi. I cleared my head. I double checked the contract. It looked fine. I sent it to the printer. A few moments later the printer whirred. I stapled the sheets together. I put them in a stiffened envelope along with a set of plans. I checked that the name and address showed through the window of the envelope. All ready. All my wife would have to do was make sure that the guy was satisfied. Fully satisfied. With the contract. Just the contract. My mobile rang. Laura. "Hi, where are you?" she asked. "At the office," I said. "How are you? You were fast asleep." "Sorry," she said. "I must have been more tired than I realised. I've had a text from him. He wants me to bring the contract over. Can you get it ready?" I did not say that I had seen the text. "When do you need it?" "He wants me to come at three. So anytime between one and two. Is that enough time to do it?" Her first few words got to me. "He wants me to come." Had he made her come already? Had he come? Had he come inside her? Had he spewed his Saudi sperm inside my wife? "Sure," I said. "I'll get it together and have it with you in an hour. You're sure you're okay to do this?" To do what? To bring the guy a contract, run through it with him, get his signature and leave. Or to fully satisfy him, a second time around? I needed to stop thinking like that. This was Laura. This was my wife I was thinking about. There was no way she would do that. Was there? "It's fine," she said. "Okay," I said, and ended the call with her. Laura had on one of her business suits. That was a relief. No backless, black dress with nothing underneath. Instead, a grey, pleated skirt with matching tailored jacket worn over a white blouse that her breasts pushed against and that just, and only just, allowed the outline of her white bra to show through. Plain black tights. Or not quite plain. They had seams running up the backs. But she looked good, professional. Were they tights or stockings? I gave her the envelope. "Thanks," she said. I drove her to the tube. It was quicker. Always the gentleman, I opened her door for her as she got in. Laura slid into the passenger seat, an inch of white thigh revealed as her skirt slid up. Stockings. My wife never wore stockings in the daytime. Only in the evening. Only for a special dinner. I stopped just before the station, in a ten minute parking bay. I put my hand on her leg as I kissed her cheek. Just high enough that my thumb was on her inner thigh, on her warm flesh, the rest of my hand on her stocking. "Thanks for doing this," I said. She did not answer as I took my hand away. She just climbed out of the car. As she closed the door my wife said the words we always said when either of us was leaving. "Love you!" "Love you too!" She closed the door, turned, and walked to the station, her back straight, her pleated skirt swaying, her slender, shapely, straight seamed calves balanced on three inch black heels. I drove home. I could have used my cock as a gear stick, but my head was still in denial. She had dressed to impress. That was all. Then I pictured her stockinged legs clamped around his waist as he thrust again and again into her, his buttocks taut, his curved cock sliding in and out of her, spewing his sperm deep into her, copious liquid globules of hot Saudi semen. Maybe the fever had not quite gone. I was not going to go back to the office. I made a hot drink of honey, lemon, whiskey. I brought it to the lounge. I turned on the television. Forget day-time. I checked the listings of programmes we had recorded. Question Time. Talking heads discussing politics. It would do. "Thanks for doing this," I had said. With my hand deliberately far enough up her thigh that she would know that I knew that she was wearing stockings. If she had let him fuck her, and was going back for more, than I had just thanked her for doing it, or at least that was how it would have come across. Fuck her. That was the first time I had used those words when I had been picturing, or thinking about what had, or had not happened. As far as he would be concerned, that was all she was. She was just a fuck. How many women had he fucked? Was there a harem back in Saudi? Not an actual harem, with topless girls langouring around a pool, and palm trees growing inside a courtyard, but were there women he could call on any time he wanted one? Did one of his lackeys arrange his women for him? Had he added my wife to whatever his tally of women he had fucked already was? He was in his thirties. When had he had his first woman? When he was a teenager? How many women does a guy like that fuck in the average week? Was Laura number however many hundred and one English architect's wife more? "How would the panel deal with the unacceptable waiting times at Accident and Emergency in our hospitals?" the Question Time audience member asked. You have to sympathise with people left sitting in hospital waiting rooms for hours on end. It is the last thing you need when you are unwell, or injured. Sitting around waiting. Your thoughts all over the place. Exactly what I was doing, right then. Sitting around waiting. My thoughts all over the place. How would it happen? I guessed he would have a suite. A reception room of some kind with the bedroom to one side, bathroom beyond. Would someone show her in? Would he open the door for her himself? What about when she went inside? What would happen then? They were not having an affair. He was hardly likely to hold her tight and kiss her in a romantic embrace. This was business mixed with pleasure. She was just a plaything. If I were him I would bring her into the reception room, but keep her standing, while I sat back down. Tell her to put the contract documents on whatever coffee table would be there. Tell her to undress. Down to her stockings and suspenders. I could enjoy doing that to her. Make her go on her hands and knees. Finger her idly while I sat thinking of other things, my fingers in her pussy. Keep her waiting until I was ready to fuck her English cunt. I had to adjust my cock again. Obviously it would not be like that. He would have a secretary, probably a man. He would have a room used as an office. He would see her there. He would read through the contract papers. He would ask some questions. Then he would sign. Then she would leave. Or he would shut the office door. Have her bend across his desk. Lift her skirt. Find her buttocks as naked as her upper thighs above her stocking tops, her pussy bare, lips pouting from between her thighs. He would play with it. He would finger it. Fingers and thumb together. Fingers in her pussy. Thumb in her ass. Maybe he would use his palm. Smack her buttock cheeks while she was bent over the desk. I would need to check, when she got back, when she undressed tonight, whether her buttocks had been reddened. Fever Pitch Any time he wanted to, he could just pull down his zip. He would have to ease out his cock, too stiff, too big to get out easily. He might check to make sure that she was wet enough. He might not. She was just a cunt after all. He could just put his cock head to her cunt and push it in. She was just another cunt, but fucking the wife of his English architect would still be so much better than yet another Arab girl. Or maybe it would not be her cunt. Maybe he would use her ass instead. Something we did not do. Maybe he would do both, one after the other, then both again, cunt, ass, cunt, ass. He needed to be fully satisfied. Maybe the answer to Accident and Emergency queueing was to provide better television, to keep those who were waiting from thinking about stuff they did not want to think about. I needed to think about something else. I looked in the listing for something else to watch. Silent Witness. Murder, detection, and a female lead I would not say no to. Not in my head at any rate. That would do. At three thirty I received a text from Laura. "Signed and sealed. I'm going to take in a film in Leicester Sq. See you later. XXX" I thought to phone to congratulate her, except if she could not answer because she was still with him, in his office, over his desk, or on his settee, or bed or floor, I might hear something that would tell me that he was fucking her, and while it was possible, I did not want the certainty of knowing. "Well done. Have a good time. XXX" Deliberately ambiguous. At some point I must have dozed. I did not hear her come through the door. I just felt her hand resting on my shoulder. "Hi," she said, from behind me. "Hi," I answered, putting my hand on hers, feeling its warmth. "How are you feeling?" she asked. "Getting there," I said. "Not quite as good as I thought this morning. How was the film?" "Good," she said. I did not ask which film she had seen, let alone the details of what had happened in it, in case she could not tell me. "I need to shower," she said. "Traveling by tube always makes me feel so grubby." "Okay," I said. She slid her hand from under mine and went upstairs, to shower away the sooty dust that hangs in the air in London's underground, or else to wash him from her body, or maybe both. Would she use the shower head to rinse down there? In there? To remove all traces of his semen. Exactly how much later, I cannot remember, but she came down in just her dressing gown, the belt holding it at the waist, white satin covering her satin smooth, white flesh, and she sat beside me, leaning against me, crossing her legs, one hand resting on my leg. She was wearing red nail varnish, not just on the fingers of her hand, but on the toes of the foot that was raised just enough for me to notice. The skin of her calves was glowing in the artificial light of our lounge. Outside, it was dark. The clock said after ten. She had been back only an hour at most. Even allowing for travelling, she had been in central London for almost five hours since her text. Two films, back to back? Two bodies, front to front, cock to cunt? "I did something, in the shower," she said. "Something you've wanted me to do before. As a treat. Since you're not feeling good." I could guess. Guessing was not hard. But my cock sure was, achingly hard. "Do you want to feel?" She uncrossed her legs. Her hand guided mine to where her pussy was now smooth, the hair that she never even trimmed before, no longer there. Her mound was smooth as a billiard ball. Right to her protruding lips. They did that. Her lips protruded. Not all the time, but when she was aroused. And after we have made love. After she has made love. After she has been fucked. "Do you like it?" she asked. I kissed her. "I love it," I said, thinking that Arab guys like their women shaved, but not saying this, just making myself believe that what she had told me was the truth. We went to bed, and we made love. I cannot pretend that my performance that night was up to much. I was too out of it to fuck her well, or to prevent myself from coming, not helped by a day of having an erection and of picturing her being fucked by my Saudi client every which way I could imagine. Maybe the uncertainty of the previous twenty four hours had got to me as well. The not knowing. In the bathroom, while I had cleaned my teeth, I noticed that the lady's razor that Laura kept for her underarms was in its dish on the window ledge, the razor, and the dish, both dry as a bone. My razor was by the sink, but just as dry. How quickly do these things lose the residual droplets of water that are inevitable after use, and dry so fully and completely? So while we were making love, I was thinking he must have shaved her, before he fucked her. Not just a cursory removal of her pubic hair, but slowly, taking his time, smoothing his razor over her pubic mound repeatedly to ensure that not a fraction of a millimetre of hair remained, easing her lips to one side to remove any growth from every nook and cranny of her sexe, and then doing exactly as I would have done, had she shaved herself for me. Going down on her. Lapping at her newly shaven pussy with his tongue. Penetrating her with its tip. Teasing her clitoris. Making her come. "The Godfather, one and two," Laura said over coffee and toast the next morning. "What?" I asked. "You didn't ask me what I saw last night. They had a double bill, at the Odeon." This was her alibi for being back so late. I could always check that the double bill really had been showing, but then, if it really was an alibi, she would not have risked making something up. The double bill had to have been showing. Laura might have genuinely seen them. Or she might have checked the listings online to get her alibi in place. She might have had it ready even before she went to get the contract signed, and to let him fuck her for the second time around. She had had time to check, while I was still putting the paperwork together at my office. What was convenient was that the Godfather films are so well know there was no point in asking her about the plot to check if she had really been to see them. She knew the plots of both. Ticket stub? Who keeps a ticket stub? And I did not want to ask her for it. "Okay," was all I said. The project took five months, from start to end. It ended with a meeting at the completed house. Laura came along, glowing with that special glow. I reckoned she deserved to, after securing the contract when I had been ill. Since then, we had been enjoying some seriously good sex. Once I had fully recovered, I had discovered that tricks of the imagination can raise your libido. Thinking of her with someone else made me want to fuck her raw. Not that she complained. She said that I was giving her the best sex of her life. But the glow was something else again. Our client arrived at the house twenty minutes after we had got there. Immaculately cut suit, white shirt, diagonally striped tie, black shoes. He had left everything to me, so it was his first visit to the house. I showed him around. Laura waited downstairs, preferring not to be on her feet too long. "I obviously made the right decision." he said, as we went upstairs. "In my choice of architect, I mean. Your wife was extremely persuasive." I wondered just how persuasive she had been. I had been wondering about that for five months solid. All I had was my fever ridden recollection, too little and too hazy to put my suspicions directly to my wife, but enough to keep me picturing him fucking her. "Yes," I said. "I'm glad she was. It's been one of my more satisfying projects." "I would have thought she keeps you more than satisfied," he said. "She's a most attractive woman." I was surprised at the direction he was taking our conversation. Was he gently boasting. Letting me know that he had fucked her? Or just making a casual comment, guy to guy?" "Yes," I agreed. "She is." "I'll admit that I was tempted," he said. "That was quite a dress she wore, the night you couldn't join us at the hotel for dinner. I even suggested she came up to my suite." I bet you did, I thought. Before I could say anything he went on. "The most she would agree to was a nightclub. I guess she told you that we danced until late. Too late for the tube. I had to arrange a cab to take her home." "Yes," I said. "She told me." We finished the tour of the new house.As I walked him around the bedrooms, I wondered why he was telling me about that night. He could just as easily have said nothing. Had she asked him to? Could I believe a word he said? We went downstairs. "Your husband has lived up to everything you told me," he said to Laura. "And do I detect that congratulations are in order?" he added, glancing down as he was talking to her, his eyes resting momentarily on her stomach, which had begun to show several weeks before. We had been trying for a year, and finally it had happened. Which is why I kept thinking back to that night when I had been ill, trying to remember. What time had she got back? In just what way had he been fully satisfied by her? Why had she chosen then, that day, to shave herself so perfectly smooth for me? Laura lowered her gaze, the usual feigned embarrassment of having the physical evidence of her pregnancy explicitly referred to. But she was clearly delighted to be expecting. "Our first," I said. "In four months time." He seemed to take a moment thinking about the timing. Then he reached inside his jacket, taking out a leather encased cheque book and a pen. We were in the kitchen, and he used the island counter to lean on as he wrote his cheque. Watching him write with his obviously expensive, tortoise shell fountain pen , I was thinking that in four month's time I would know for sure. That is, the complexion of the baby, when it arrived, if I was the father, would be pure white. Any hint of olive would tell me it was not mine, and that this guy had fucked my wife that night, and in the afternoon that followed. Of course, even if our child turns out to be as white complexioned as the snow, and as the smoothly shaven mound between my wife's delicious thighs, that she still keeps free of hair, I still will not know for sure if Laura had spread her thighs for him. Even if our child is mine, that does not mean she did not let him fuck her. It would not tell me if while I had been laid up in bed, Laura had risked Saudi sperm impregnating her in a hotel bedroom, not just once, but returning the next afternoon to take that same risk a second time. "You said the costs over-ran a little," he said, tearing the cheque from its stub. "I have added more than enough to cover, as a thank you for services rendered, and perhaps to provide something for the new arrival." It sounded so smooth and charming. The meaning was ambiguous. He offered the cheque to me. I took it. I glanced at it was I put it with my papers. Three hundred thousand. Even with the overrun on costs, the extra one hundred thousand was far more than was needed to cover the ten percent which was my fee. "Thank you," I said. Then I turned to Laura. "We should be going," I suggested. In the car, I told my wife about the amount that he had written on the cheque. "It's generous," she said. "I guess he can afford it." "I guess he can," I said. "You didn't tell me he likes to play roulette." She gave me a look, clearly puzzled at my comment. "He told me how much he had enjoyed your company that night," I said. "That you went on to a casino after dinner, and that you even brought him good luck at the roulette table. You did not even complain when he kept you there so late he had to get a cab to take you home." She laughed. "I had forgotten that," she said. "Yes. It was a fun evening. I did get back pretty late. You were so out of it." I pictured him between her legs, bucking and thrusting, using his cock as a piston, sating his hunger for yet another woman, someone else's woman, fucking her just for his amusement, another night, another cunt, another plaything, another receptacle for his sperm. Roulette? What roulette? He had told me they went dancing, so now I knew the only dancing they had done that night was horizontal. The only reason she had so readily confirmed that they had been to a casino was because she had been in bed with him, or on the floor, over a table, or wherever they had fucked. The only roulette had been the russian roulette that my wife had played, letting him shoot his sperm in her while we still trying for our first child, risking not sudden death, but sudden life, growing and kicking inside her. Of course I could have said something straight away. I could have told her that I knew. I could even have said that actually he had told me that he had fucked her, that he had noticed that she was expecting, and that the amount he would write on his cheque would be somewhat higher, to make amends. Or to pay us off. She would have believed me if I had said that. Instead I waited. The sex with her since that night, that afternoon, had been seriously good, stimulated by my suspicions. I wanted more of that, even with the more restricted positions that her pregnancy would soon require us to use. I could wait a while. Say, four months. Find out whose child my wife was carrying. Take it from there. Decide what to do with my fucking wife. Suggestions welcome.