50 comments/  104455 views/  9 favorites

A Tale of Immorality Ch. 01

By: angiquesophie



Chapter One: A Pinch Of Infidelity. 

I am Anne. I am married, and I let other men fuck me.

No, that's not true. I should be honest with you — I enjoy fucking men other than my husband. I enjoy it tremendously.

My husband doesn't know. And I hope he never will. But please don't get me wrong — I feel no guilt about what I do. I even think I am doing him a favor.

One day he will discover my infidelity, of course. Someone may see me. Someone will talk. I may slip. A detail may give me away. 

I fear that day.

I fear it partly because it would hurt him. I love him too much to see him hurt and lose him. But let me remain honest, at least to myself — I mostly fear discovery because it would put an end to my adventures.

I'd have to choose, and I hate choosing. 

I love my husband. I love how we make love. But I also very much love to fuck around. I can't live with the one and not have the other. It would render me incomplete. And highly frustrated. For him I would become impossible to live with. Assuming he'd still want me, of course.

Yes, you frown. 

I can see how you need to dismiss this as totally immoral. You really feel you have to boo me, don't you? I understand. You have no alternative. You have to reassure the world that you at least are morally pure. I can see how you would want to dump your indignation on me. 

If only to save yourself.

Don't worry, go ahead. I do understand you. In your position I might even do the same. But please, if only for a few minutes: jump over your shadow. Unplug your ears and listen.

Things aren't always as Sunday school taught you, you know. Maybe they ought to be. But they just aren't. There's always some small thing that prevents righteousness from happening.

It's called "reality."

*** 

As I said, my name is Anne. No further name is needed. 

My husband's name is George. We met at college, eleven years ago. He was tall and blonde. The tall part is still true, the blonde is getting thinner. I fell for him the first moment we met. He needed more time. We weren't even dating exclusively for the first year.

I was. He wasn't. Isn't that ironic?

At a party into our second year he saw the light. And I guess after that he never felt the urge to retire into the shadows again.

The first time we had sex was right after that party. I was drinking, so was he. It was just enough to get us past embarrassment, but not nearly enough to hamper our performance.

I was no virgin to sex. But I discovered that I was a virgin to good sex. To be quite accurate, on the narrow bed in my shared apartment I had my first real orgasm with a man.

George was great. Correction — he is great. He has this body you want to crawl into for sheer comfort and safety. And his mind won't ever allow things to turn everyday-dull. I love his voice. His eyes. The hard muscles of his tight butt.

And his cock.

What I did not know then — but know now of course — is that he has an average-sized cock. What I also know now is that with it he can bring me pleasures many larger men can only dream of in their machoest fantasies.

Sneer if you have to. But being with other men a lot doesn't always have to diminish a wife's respect for her husband. It doesn't for me.

George's secret is patience. 

Patience is the rarest commodity in lovemaking, you know. I might even say that it is the crucial difference between love and sex. Patience to put your lover's needs first. To train your own stamina so that your lover may enjoy all the pleasures there are to be found.

George loves me very much. 

In fact, he worships me with his love., but he also shames me with it. For although my love for him is immense, there will always be the love I have for myself as well.

I guess by now you have to reach over to a new box of judgments. Let me help you. It is under the S for selfishness.

As I said, I'll be honest with you — if you're looking for a perfect person, look elsewhere.

*** 

George and I were married for two years when it happened for the first time.

We had both found good jobs. He was working with an insurance company. They obviously appreciated him — he received substantial raises twice a year.

I worked at a fast growing string of delicatessen and catering shops. I did their marketing and PR. It wasn't just for the money. I liked the job. I liked being surrounded by people with great taste and adventurous spirits.

One of those spirits belonged to Antoine.

He was French Canadian and had been schooled in Lyon, France, by the famous Paul Bocuse. He was great fun to be with. He also became very passionate when it came to food and cooking.

Antoine lived alone and I guess it was his accent and his flamboyant style that made many people think he might be gay. I suppose that was why I had no qualms to say "yes" when he invited me to have dinner at his place. He said I was a woman with taste and he wanted to try out a new recipe.

George was out of town; my alternative was staying home alone — and being bored.

So I dressed nicely. 

I was sure Antoine would set an almost professional table and I did not want to spoil the atmosphere by turning up in a casual outfit.

He met me at the door wearing a very stylish Italian suit over a simple white t-shirt. It looked great on him, yet very relaxed. I was glad I had decided at the last minute to wear my little black number. We matched admirably.

One look into his eyes told me Antoine wasn't gay. One more look showed me I was in trouble.

He took my wrap-around shawl and the bottle of wine I had brought with me. He asked me to turn around for him. I giggled and made a slow pirouette on my sling-back pumps. He whistled. Then he immediately apologized for being so bold. He took my hand. He breathed a kiss on it that felt like the wings of a bird. It made me shiver and giggle some more.

His apartment looked stylish, yet warm. It had the casual feeling of a bachelor's lair, but all the furniture, rugs and decorations had been selected with good taste. The dinner table was set in his large, open kitchen. It had spotless white linen on it, crystal glasses and a lot of soft glowing candles.

Before we sat down to eat, he poured a white wine. We struck up a conversation and forgot the time. Antoine told me about his years in France. It was all very witty and great fun.

When the first silence fell I saw that the chilled bottle was almost empty.

I felt I could not stop giggling. It irritated me, but Antoine seemed not to mind. On the contrary. Before I knew it we were on his couch together. Very together. His fingers caressed my flushed cheek. He told me how beautiful I was.

I giggled. We kissed.

The kiss woke me up. I pushed him away with a frown and a smile. He never winced, but reminded us that dinner couldn't wait a minute longer.

I went to the bathroom. His kiss still made my lips tingle. My legs felt like gum; they almost caused me to stumble on my heels. I'm sure he must have seen me.

At last I met my burning face in the mirror. Oh, my God. I dashed cold water into it, before returning. I decided to be friendly but distant, warm but weary, flirty but resolute.

When I walked back over his tastefully tiled floor, I saw it was paved with good intentions.

*** 

Antoine fucked me that night between a lovely dish of innocent quail and a dessert of peppered strawberry cream. When his perfect cock slid into my dripping cunt I realized that there had not been one moment I had wanted him to stop.

It started when I sat down at the round, cozy table.

He pushed the chair under me and lightly touched my bare shoulder. He left his hand there for just a split second. I felt the warmth sink into my skin. He must have noticed that I trembled.

As an appetizer we had oysters.

I had never eaten raw oysters before and told him about my reservations. He made a big show of converting me. It involved him sliding over to me while he rattled on about the excellent qualities of the slimy creatures. He squeezed some lemon. Then he added a drop of vinegar and red onion dressing. He asked me to throw my head back and to open my mouth.

His breath touched my ear. 

"Close your eyes," he whispered. I did. The raw oyster slithered down my tongue. It sent a hundred tiny spider feet up and down my spine. The salty taste and the slippery texture were fraught with erotic innuendo.

I moaned when his mouth closed on mine. I moaned some more when his tongue dashed in to follow the oyster.

I just gasped when his hand touched my tit.

There were six oysters. Three for me, three for him. It took us a while.

When the last one had slithered down my gullet, Antoine did something shocking. He stood back and pulled up the spaghetti strap of my dress. It had slipped off my shoulder, exposing most of my left tit.

"I should not take advantage of your weakness, Anne. You have been drinking. You are a married woman. We work together. And of course there are the quail to attend to."

He grinned and stepped back to pour me some wine. Then he looked after the main dish.

I felt dazed.

My body was on fire. So was my mind. My panties must have been soaked by then. All thoughts of loyalty to George — and to be honest all thoughts of George, period — had been wiped from my mind until Antoine reminded me of my marriage.

I moaned. It sounded frustrated. He looked up and grinned.

*** 

The quail were buttery soft and mildly spicy.

He had had the good sense to remove their little heads before serving. It seems the French insist on showing them, so you know you won't be cheated into eating mere chicken. I guess I prefer being cheated upon.

Antoine fed me little morsels. 

I complimented him on the excellent food. He smiled. His finger rested for just a while on my lower lip. I chewed on the succulent meat. I'd love to say it was accidental that I also sucked on his finger.

"You have such good taste," he whispered, smiling.

I smiled back and offered him a sliver of quail's breast in return. He grabbed my hand and took the food in with my fingers. He sucked.

"It is so easy to have good taste with you, Antoine," I said and smiled. We soon ended up kissing again.

I am afraid the poor little birds died in vain. They soon lay cold and abandoned on the beautiful table.

We were on the couch again, sharing tongues and undoing buttons. His mouth around my screaming nipples made me gasp.

His tongue on my exposed clit made me come.

Soon I knelt before him. His aroused cock throbbed against the palms of my caressing hands. My tongue licked the pearly drops from the shining head.

"Excellent taste," I murmured.

I knew I was hooked. Oh, not on Antoine. I was hooked on the difference. The new way he felt, sounded, tasted. The new and intense attention I received. I was hooked on the sudden rush of sheer youthfulness.

It was the firstness of it all, I guess. The never knowing what would be next. And there had not been one moment I had wanted him to stop. An unknown cock filled me. A man had spent days, maybe weeks in conquering me. He had gone out of his way to create these few moments.

It was exhilarating. Everything was. The way he touched me. The way he searched to find our rhythm. The way he made my body sing.

I came with him. It was one of the most special moments of my life.

Yes, yes. Go judge me. Call me insensitive. Call me any ugly name in the book. Make your impeccable righteousness known. But I'll stay stubbornly honest. Coming with Antoine that evening is one of my fondest memories.

Afterwards we just lay exhausted, panting, smiling.

Then I told him I had to leave.

He protested. The evening was young — there was still dessert, coffee, sweet chocolate bon-bons. But I knew it was over. I kissed him once more and thanked him. Then I collected my clothes.

The soaked panties went into my purse.

At the door he tried to kiss me once more, but I pressed my fingertips to his lips.

"Don't spoil it, Antoine." 

I left.

*** 

I phoned George as soon as I was home.

I did it even before taking a shower. I feared it might be an awkward call, but it wasn't. I heard his voice and a warm feeling flushed my body.

It felt...new.

A Tale of Immorality Ch. 02



Chapter Two: A Note Of Deceit. 

Were you ever in my position?

I don't think so. But I am certain you have an opinion about me. Most probably it isn't a very good one.

I am Anne.

Maybe we've met. I am married and love to fuck other men without my husband knowing. I have been doing that for quite a while. I feel no guilt about it. And I have no intention of stopping.

Do I love my husband? I really think I do.

Don't laugh. I know it must sound ridiculous. Everybody knows you can't love a person and fuck around on him — or her. So surely I couldn't love my husband.

But is everybody right? 

They must be. Go watch your typical Hollywood movie. Or tune in to just about any TV romance. You hear violins. That's when you know you're in love. Especially women. You feel it and you know. And if you know, you're supposed to forsake all others.

You told the minister, remember? 

So if you love, you don't cheat. And if you cheat, you can't love. What's the problem? The problem is that I love to cheat and I still believe I love my George.

"Aha!" you may say. "That's easy. It can't be real love, then."

Sigh. You may be right. My problem is that no one ever told me what real love is. Did anyone ever tell you?

They told me which mushrooms are poisonous and which ones are not. They told me where to cross the street. They explained to me why I shouldn't smoke. And why I should use condoms. But they never told me what love is. How it feels. How it tastes.

So how should I know what love is? Or — to put it differently — how could you know that my love for George cannot be real?

I know what you think.

You think I am trying to wriggle out. That I am conjuring up clever words, like a slick lawyer. You think that I try to serve myself, my petty lust, my greedy needs, just to make seem right what really is wrong.

I know how it looks to you. You may even be right. But could I care less? It is my problem, isn't it? 

And it's my love.

***

After that first time with Antoine I never stopped.

Oh, don't get me wrong, I didn't fuck Antoine again. The thought didn't even occur to me. Not to me. To him, it sure did. He kept after me for weeks. But somehow I knew that one time was the limit.

It was always that way with the men I fucked. Well, almost always. It is the newness and the firstness that makes cheating special to me.

And acceptable, I guess.

When I look back at my adventures — trysts, flings, affairs, whatever you want to call them — I don't see them as a chain of sleazy sex bouts. Not at all. At some times the sex wasn't even much more than a bonus.

One time there wasn't even sex at all.

I see it as one of those little fan-like booklets you get at a paint shop. A spectrum of colors that runs from blue through green through yellow and red. Each time had a distinct flavor for me. A certain smell or taste can bring them back. Like swallowing an oyster.

A sound can do it too.

The guy I met after Antoine was a concert pianist. He was in his young forties, very attractive. He had fled from Russia and was by now a rather well-known performing artist. His name was Wasilly, "call me Wes." We met through a PR plan I had developed. I organized a series of concerts at the local music hall. We not only added our firm's name to the happenings, we also turned them into culinary events. Antoine did the food.

Oh yes, maybe you forgot. 

I work with this catering firm that also has a fast growing chain of delicatessens throughout the state. And beyond. I do marketing and PR.

Wasilly and I met twice.

It was always in the company of the concert hall's producers and my assistant. When we had a drink after the second meeting, he took me aside and invited me to a concert he was giving in Chicago.

***

I was pleasantly surprised when he had a limo pick me up at the airport. The driver took me to the Drake Hotel, where a suite had been booked for me. It was breathtakingly beautiful with a glorious view of the lake.

At the center of the room stood a grand piano. On it lay a single rose. It reflected in the deep shine of the lacquer. There was also a card telling me how welcome I was. He had excused himself for having to rehearse all day for the concert that night. I was asked to relax. I would be picked up for the concert around 7:30 p.m. He was looking forward to having a late supper with me afterwards.

You see now that it was much more than "just sex"?

***

I had tea in the gorgeous lobby and I strolled along the Magnificent Mile. Then I returned to my suite to sink into the bath and ponder what to wear.

Well, I wasn't really pondering. 

I knew what I'd wear. I just had to work up the courage to do it. You see, before I left for Chicago I had bought this slinky, deep red velvety dress with a daring plunge, front and back. It was ankle-length and hugged my body very nicely.

The point is it could only be worn without a bra. 

Another point was that I had never shown myself in public without one. I don't have huge breasts. And they don't really need the support. But they are large enough to do this telltale jiggling when given their freedom. And they have quite spectacular nipples. Nosy little rascals. They love to come out and play when all that jiggling and rubbing wakes them up.

After getting dressed and made up, I walked over to a tall mirror. 

I had never seen myself like this. I'd never dared. But I knew I should have. I looked good. Sexy, yes. Sexy from my shining red lips down to my cleavage. From the curves of my hips down to the slit that showed a leg and the stiletto heels that made me stand tall.

But it was a high class kind of sexy. Subtle and tasteful. Classy enough to make me swallow my fear. "Damn, you look good, Anne," my voice whispered in a breathless way. 

The sound made my nipples swell.

Did I feel guilty? George had never seen me like this. I had never dressed for him this way. Yes, of course I felt guilt. For two seconds, to be precise. And it annoyed me. For this wasn't for George. It wasn't even for Wasilly.

It was for me.

*** 

My cell phone rang.

"Honey?"

"Yes, darling, me too. So glad to hear your voice."

"Oh yes, the journey was good…no problems."

"Don't worry. They are very hospitable."

"The Drake, yes. Mmmmm, George. We should come here together soon. Such a lovely place."

"Ah, well, dinner somewhere, I guess. They pick me up."

"I know. Me too."

"Yes."

"Yes…"

"Must leave, love. I'll call you."

"Yes, me too, George."

"Me too…bye love."

My finger and thumb left my right nipple. The aroused flesh strained against the velvet.

***

I looked down on the stage from the box to which they had ushered me. 

The orchestra was tuning up. It created the chaotic forest of sounds that never fails to stir up feelings of anticipation. I just love to be rocked by this ocean of strings. When I close my eyes I see a seascape. I hear seagulls — clarinets and flutes. I feel the deep, low ground-swell of cello's and bassoons.

I really love music.

At the center of the stage was a grand piano. It stood alone and slightly raised. Its polished lacquer reflected the myriad of lights. There lay a single rose on its keyboard. Seeing it took my breath away.

Ah, definitely…this was so much more than sex.

The hall filled slowly with well-dressed people. Women in gowns, men in suits, even tuxedos. A warm and festive murmur rose to my elevated position. I found binoculars and started observing people. I saw a gorgeous blonde on the arm of a gray tycoon. I spied on the first violinist. And I took in the rose on the piano.

A silence fell.

Then applause welcomed the artists. The conductor was old and fragile. His hair was thin and white. The program told me he was famous and Russian. To his right walked Wasilly. He looked great. Just watching him sent a flush to my cheeks. 

I felt special.

The conductor took his place in front of the orchestra. Wasilly went to the piano. He sat down. Then he took the rose. He smelled it and looked straight up to where I was sitting. 

My face was on fire.

Only then did I see the young girl behind Wasilly. She was tiny and gorgeous. Chinese, maybe, or Japanese. Her skin shone pale and flawless in the spotlights. There was a lot of it showing, as she wore a strapless dress. Her hair was long, straight and bluish black.

She had the face of a doll.

Her task obviously was to turn Wasilly's pages while he played. It must sound silly, but I envied her. I even felt jealous of their closeness.

***

Wasilly only played until intermission. So as people rose to applaud and cheer him, a young man took me from my box down to an elegant room at the back of the stage. He offered me a glass of champagne and asked me to wait.

Wasilly came rushing in. His face reflected his excitement. There was a huge bouquet in his arms. It must have been handed to him during the applause.

He hugged me, crushing the flowers between us. His lips were all over my face until they found mine. We kissed passionately. "Welcome," he said with his cute accent. "So wonderful of you to come."

Over his shoulder I saw the petite Asian girl. She stood next to the door. Her eyes were down. There was a blush on her cheeks.

"Please meet little Ling," Wasilly said with a wide smile. "She is my very special page-turner."

*** 

I have had sex with women before.

Even as early as high school I had been with girls. It was never a big thing. It felt natural and I still think it is. Making love to a girl is often just a seamless extension of affection. We share emotions so much easier than we do with men. Even after marrying George it was sometimes the natural nightcap after an evening of fun and gossip with a girl friend.

But I had never done a threesome.

I felt shocked when Wasilly proposed it over dinner. The girl never blushed. She only smiled her tiny Asian smile. What really confused me was the nature of my shock. I felt jealous.

Okay, laugh. Wife is cheating on husband and feels jealous of lover.

I guess Wasilly saw my embarrassment. For a man he is very sensitive. His hand covered mine. "Shall I send her away, sweetheart?" he whispered. "I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable."

I smiled. Then I caressed his face and said: "No, Wasilly. I know you want it. I won't spoil your evening." My other hand was on his crotch by then. I squeezed his cock. It didn't disappoint me.

Wasilly smiled. "Ling!" he said. The girl looked up. He only nodded. To my amazement the sweet doll slid off her chair into the damask tent of our tablecloth. My eyes widened. Wasilly grinned. Tiny hands ran up my legs. They pushed up my dress. 

They also pushed my thighs apart.

A bolt of fire flashed up from my cunt as a velvet vice closed over it. The strong little eel that swam up my vagina made me swallow a surprised moan. A fingertip expertly rubbed my clit. 

Deep blushes climbed out of my décolleté.

***

I won't ever forget that night.

Wasilly and his trained little page-turner were the most incredible team of lovers that ever spoiled me. Her body was like a girl's. It was soft and strong, tight and luscious. Her energy was endless. 

And there was nothing she wouldn't do gladly.

We started kissing and grabbing in the elevator. After the massive orgasm Ling had given me under the table, I had two more before we even reached the bed.

Wasilly fucked the girl's little ass as she ate me out. And after she sucked him back to impressive life, he did me on the grand piano. His cock was longer and fatter than any I had felt before. Between it and the Chinese's wriggling tongue, I jumped from one climax to another.

***

When I awoke the next morning, I was alone. 

The bed was a ruin. The sheets felt sticky. So did my skin. My nipples wore little crowns of love bites. My cunt lips were puffy and sore to the touch. My ass hole felt stretched.

I crawled to the bathroom. 

Then my cell phone rang. It took me a while to find it. By then the voice mail had taken over. George's soft and friendly voice shocked me. I hadn't thought of him since yesterday's call. He said he wished me a great day. And that he loved me. It made me moan. My nipples throbbed.

"I love you," I whispered.

Then I sat down on the porcelain toilet and flushed out Wasilly's sperm.



A Tale of Immorality Ch. 03



Chapter Three: A Whiff Of Debauchery 

I am Anne.

I am the woman who went to Chicago to fuck a Russian concert pianist and his juicy Chinese page turner. Remember? I am also the woman who afterwards whispered "I love you" to her husband while rinsing her lover's fresh sperm from her cunt. 

By now you must find me disgusting.

Please don't think I'd care less. I am not a masochist. I love to be liked. But yes, your disgust won't stop my desire to fuck outside my marriage. It is the spice of my life. Losing it would turn me into the most boring of persons. And who needs that?

My husband George doesn't deserve a depressed wife, does he? I promise to be careful. There is no need for him to know what puts the bubble in me. Wouldn't that spoil it all, for him and for me? I need my little holidays. I bring them home as a gift. Like a fresh tan from Aruba. Or a healthy blush from a spa.

Yes, I can see how you shake your head. So much bullshit just to get what I want. Selfishness wrapped in generosity. Treason in disguise.

Ah well. I guess I have to live with your disapproval. A small price to pay. At least I have one consolation: it has been a great life so far.

*** 

It took almost half a year before a new adventure presented itself. 

Six months of getting wet from tasting oysters. Or just hearing a Beethoven sonata. Any piano piece, actually. It was also six months of bringing home a horny body because of it. And having sweet George gloriously fuck it.

*** 

More and more celebrities hope their fame will spill over into a well-sold perfume brand. I guess it all started with Coco Chanel. Nowadays there are many others. Some are successful; a lot, not really.

I still work at this growing chain of delicatessen and catering shops. I do PR and marketing there. Of course I have a boss. And as all bosses do, he sometimes has an idea.

Funny thing about the ideas of bosses is that they always get implemented. All other ideas tend to be squeezed through a bottleneck of research and yawning committees. But his idea of tying in with the perfume brand of a celebrity made it into execution in no time at all.

My boss had met a particular celebrity at a fund-raiser against land mines or something. She is a famous model, known for her face and her coke parties. (Ah, well, I shouldn't be this transparently jealous, should I?)

In my desperate quest for just the right PR strategy, I came up with a great idea — we would contract with famous restaurants throughout the state to prepare dishes that would go well with the perfume — combining the senses of smell and taste, so to speak.

It was all bullshit, of course. But it was the right bullshit. The restaurants were enthusiastic and so were their chefs, but paramount was the endorsement I got from the celebrity model herself, because it made my boss smile.

I met Alan as we prepared our campaign. He was the head of the laboratory that had designed the perfume.

I at once knew I had to have him. 

He was tall, lean and Mediterranean. His nose made me chuckle. It was as impressive as one might expect from a man of his profession. I also mused about what they say about men with large noses.

Alan wasn't nice. 

He was haughty and arrogant. Looking down his nose came natural, I'd say. It seemed he didn't even see me at all. I tried to catch his gaze during our meeting. But he never even looked my way.

The next meeting was hardly different. Funny thing was, the more he ignored me, the more I wanted him. I was like a ditzy teenager. After the first disaster I had decided to dress up. A lot more leg, a bit more tit. And shiny lipstick. But in the end I had to believe he was gay, if only to protect my self esteem.

As the meeting petered out, we ended up being the last ones around. I gathered my stuff and started to leave. Suddenly his hand was on my wrist. It felt warm and strong. And it stopped me. I turned to meet his eyes. He pulled me closer and kissed me.

I struggled for about two seconds. 

Make that one.

***

He was staying at the local five star hotel. 

That worried me — too many people knew me there. Even if George wouldn't accidentally see me, there were too many chances someone else might notice me and tell him. (I don't want to lose George, remember?) 

So I drove my little sports car over to a motel twenty miles down the highway. It was quite a nice place, actually. Pool and garden and all. But that wasn't where our main interest lay.

The rumor about a link between noses and cocks may still be unfounded. With Alan it was deliciously true. Thank God he was very considerate with it.

He must have seen me flinch when I opened his fly. He was only half way up, but the pole that swayed in front of me was already both taller and fatter than any I had ever seen. Including my Russian maestro.

"Kiss it, please," he murmured. And I did.

When he had at last worked it into my cunt, I thought I had died. Yes, and gone to heaven, as they say. In my memories the afternoon was one solid orgasm.

I had to avoid poor George for two nights afterwards, until my pussy had shrunk to its innocent proportions again. It may have been hard for him (no pun intended) — but it was frustrating for me, too. The afternoon delight had left me horny like you wouldn't believe. All I wanted was to fuck George. As I said: he profited as much from my little adventures as I did. 

He just had to wait a bit, sometimes.

***

I met with Alan quite a few times after that.

The meetings were purely professional, though. I had the Law of Anne to consider. It precluded any possibility of repeating our sexual fling. I could tell it wasn't easy for Alan. As arrogant as he had been before, that's how eager he was now for us to get together again.

I was really quite proud. 

Although my dripping pussy protested, I kept the promise I had made to myself. Until our last meeting. 

It wasn't at our offices. It was at their headquarters in San Francisco. I was requested to fly there to compose the final bouquets of scents and fragrances that would intersperse the different courses of the meals.

I knew it was a blatant lie —  

So I knew why I went, and it thrilled me to no end. (Yes, I know. Sliding standards and all.) 

He picked me up at the airport. His kiss felt wonderful. He smelled good. It was great to just walk alongside him. He is very handsome; people notice.

Once outside, I breathed deeply. The sheer freedom made me dizzy. 

He asked if it was all right to take me to his condo. We could easily finish the job tomorrow. He grinned at that. He knew as well as I how contrived our appointment was.

His car was a vintage Volvo. It had a high and elegant back, like a cat's. It felt as if I'd stepped into an old European movie. The tires even had white sides.

His apartment was at the top of a high-rise building. San Francisco lay at our feet as we were on the crest of a hill. I admired the view. His hand slid around my waist. I turned and kissed him.

I also thanked him for this incredible present.

"De nada," he chuckled.

Then he picked a rose from a vase and made me bury my nose in it. The sweet scent overwhelmed me.

"Did you know a scent can make you orgasm?" he asked. I looked up from the rose. There must have been skepticism in my smile.

"We'll eat first," he said.

I quickly changed into a small cotton dress and nice heels. My hair and make-up took most of my time. He drove me to a small old-fashioned Italian restaurant. They seemed to know him well. The wine was lovely. So was the pasta salad.

I kept feeling like a time traveler.

*** 

What should I make of the bedroom?

It was high kitsch, no doubt about that. There were old statues of saints all around. Virgin Mary's and Sacred Hearts. There were chandeliers and hundreds of burning candles. Colorful drapes too. 

The bed was covered with a million fresh flower petals. A heavy perfume permeated the air. It almost took my breath away. The combination with the wine gave me a floating feeling.

There was one second of doubt. Then Alan knelt before me.

"Please undress," he whispered. 

I did. He didn't. He gathered my clothes and hung them up. I stood naked. The living flames and the perfumed air swirled around my trembling body. My nipples grew. I touched my tits. 

Should I run? It was all so…strange.

He just kept staring at me. I started to talk, but he shhhh-ed me, a finger to his lips.

"Please, lay down," he said at last. 

The silk sheets and flowers felt cool against my back and thighs. My skin glowed with excitement. The lights went out, but the candles kept weaving their uncertain light over my naked skin. The scents and fragrances became even more intense.

He knelt at my side. A slow finger ran the length of my body. Sparks of arousal followed his touch. I caught his gaze. He asked me to close my eyes. A moan escaped me. I gasped at the sheer impact of sensations. 

My body arched against his touch.

Then he took my wrist. Something soft but firm closed around it. Too late to run. My arm stretched until I knew it was tied to something. As was my other arm. And my legs. Was this weird? Scary, maybe? Oh yes, it was that too. But most of all, it was incredibly arousing.

When nothing happened, I opened my eyes. 

I saw his dark silhouette over me. Suddenly something cool touched my left nipple. It felt like burning ice. I cried at the touch. Then I moaned as I felt the fire sink into my body. He touched my other nipple. A second fire was kindled. I felt the cold object slide down the center to my clit. 

I screamed.

Then all touches were gone. I could not stop wriggling in their aftermath. My body rose in search of contact. A deep glow had entered through three tiny gates. It lifted me to the edge of a dizzying pinnacle. 

"Xstaz 009 we call it." 

His voice came from the dark. "Three little droplets at the right places. They vaporize and then…" 

I could only moan. A confused mist replaced my brain. My nipples screamed. So did my clit.

Then a soft little ball touched my nose. Cotton, I guess. A flare of musky perfume hit me. My tied body formed a taut bridge as I came and came, screaming. Wide rivers of ecstasy drowned my body. It shook and convulsed with climax after climax. All air seemed to be cut off. I felt like a balloon tugging at its moorings, aching to fly away. 

It was indescribable. 

I am certain it made me pass out for a minute. Then I crashed back on the flowery bed. I panted, gasped. I also felt a cool breeze sweep over my wet and sweating body.

*** 

The dark dusk lifted.

I saw his face, he was very close. He smiled. 

"I see you like our new perfume," he said. "Did I convince you?" I could only whimper.

That night he fucked me in a maelstrom of scents and perfumes. I rode his huge cock and gagged on it while exotic fragrances wisped in and out on the breezes of his high-tech but subtle air conditioning system. 

The sun never reached his bedroom. But it must have been morning when we sank into a bottomless sleep at last.

***

"Yes honey…I'll land around 6 pm."

"Yes, I am very tired."

"So nice of you to pick me up."

"Hmm, yes. It sure is incredible what they can do with perfumes."

"A woman's paradise for sure."

"I brought a few li'l' bottles. Some are not even on the market yet."

"You'll see how great they are."

"Me too, honey."

"Yes, I do…deeply so."

"Kiss, darling."

"See you soon."

"Bye…"

The departure hall was full of people. 

I sat waiting at my gate. I looked very businesslike in my dark suit, white blouse. No one knew how my throbbing nipples screamed inside my lace bra. Nor did anyone see the trickling juices that darkened my cotton thong.

I just could not resist taking a whiff. The tiny crystal vial sparkled in the palm of my hand.



A Tale of Immorality Ch. 04



Chapter Four: A Glimpse Of Adultery 

You want me to get caught, don't you? 

Be honest. You ache for me to be discovered and punished. The dirty whore must have what's due her. She can't be a cheating slut and enjoy it, too. And get away with it. It would be a crying shame.

Look at poor George, you say.

Poor? I bet he is richer than you. He loves his little wife with innocent trust. He is proud of how bubbly and sexy she is. 

He is happy. 

He never even asks himself why Christmas is so early each year. And so often. His sweet wife keeps bringing all those adventurous new love games into his bedroom, and he has no clue. He just accepts them gratefully.

He should. They are given with all my heart.

You know who would be hurt the most if he found out? George. He'd have to divorce me. He doesn't want that. He loves me and I love him. But even if he didn't want to lose me, he wouldn't have a choice. He'd be a wimp in your eyes if he didn't throw me out. He'd reap your scorn and disgust, wouldn't he? He'd have to.

But after that he'd be all alone. 

To you it would mean nothing that he would lose all he has. For you there is only Truth, Morality and Decency. To hell with all the poor souls that get trampled to mush under the iron boots of that unholy trinity.

"Justice must be done."

***

I am Anne, remember? 

Almost thirty. I do PR and marketing for a fast growing company of delicatessen and catering shops throughout the state. And even beyond.

I am also the Anne who spices up her life by fucking men behind her husband's back.

It had been five months since I was with the crazy perfume maker in San Francisco. Sometimes I dreamed of his generous toy. But I never went back. I didn't even take his phone calls. The Law of Anne was back in force.

Once was all I'd allow myself. Well, two at the most.

The little bottles he gave me had long since been emptied. And yes, of course they never had the awesome power they seemed to have in his magical bedroom. Scents and fragrances can be potent aphrodisiacs. But their main ingredient will always be your imagination.

Still, they — and the memories attached — aroused me enough. They brought a lot of joy and satisfaction to our bedroom.

And to my George.

*** 

As I said before, I never actively search for my next conquest. It has to reveal itself, a present of Fate.

Justin proved to be that present, five months after my last fling. It was high summer and we were working on the winter holidays' brochures and campaigns.

Justin was a photographer. 

He wanted to be a famous fashion photographer one day. But he was still young and had to earn a living. So he shot our food. He had become very good at it. But it wasn't where his heart was.

It was rather surreal to dress the sets with holly and artificial snow while outside his studio temperatures were nearing the hundred mark. His AC wasn't exactly state of the art either. So there we were all sweating over Thanksgiving turkeys and jingle bells.

That's when Justin took off his shirt.

He's a bit younger than I am, maybe by six or seven years. And I somehow never perceived him as handsome or physically impressive. Until he took off that shirt.

He had tanned muscles in all the right places. His shoulders were wide and his belly tight as a drum. I loved how ropes of muscle rolled beneath the skin of his back. And I sure appreciated his buns, tightly packed in faded denim. 

Even his rugged face looked way more attractive than I remembered.

I only wore a thin white cotton blouse and a rather short skirt over my bare legs. But after Justin started moving around half naked, the studio definitely seemed to get hotter.

Of course we weren't alone. 

There were the art director and the food specialist. And a boy to assist with the lighting.

Obviously, it wasn't wise to distract the photographer while on my boss's precious time, so I just looked on. I bided my time and bit my lip. I must admit that I didn't concentrate much on the turkey anymore. Or on the delicious Christmas pies, for that matter.

*** 

Around eight pm we were mostly done. 

The others had left, but I wasn't in a hurry. (Yes, sorry, my flings have made me quite calculating when I smell a chance. Through the years, the level of sluttiness in my blood must have risen significantly. Ah well.)

Then Justin called my name. It startled me. I must have been daydreaming while he put his lenses away. Or whatever.

"You look beautiful, Anne," he said. I guess I blushed.

"I have to go," I answered. True, it wasn't quite what I meant to say.

"A pity," he said and smiled.

I caught his eyes and asked, "Why?"

He walked over to me. His bare torso became almost uncomfortably prominent. He had interesting nipples. 

"I'd love to take pictures of you, Anne. I think you are beautiful."

His fingers formed a frame to look through. He smiled. I laughed nervously. Was there ever a more transparent pick up line. 

"I mean it," he insisted. "Ever since we met, I knew you'd be my perfect model. You are real. Different. I want you in my portfolio."

I shrugged. 

"You know very well I am not a model," I said. "Too old, too fat. Don't bullshit me, Justin. I am not a teenager. If you want to fuck me, just tell me. I might say yes."

I touched his biceps. He flinched.

***

Well, in the end it seemed he really did want to photograph me. He adjusted some lights and started taking Polaroids to test the lighting. I felt as nervous as a schoolgirl. But it excited me as well. 

There is no substitute for the limelight, I guess.

Soon he broke out his Hasselblatt. He'd put on some music and had me moving to that.

Then he asked me to take off my clothes. 

He went and locked the studio door. When he returned I waited in my bra and panties. He cleared his throat timidly. I understood. A moment later I was naked. 

It felt incredible. 

To be totally naked and on display lifts you to the top of the world. It felt like an intoxication. Even the stifling air screamed freedom into my ringing ears. My stressed out muscles uncoiled. 

I guess I lost whatever remained of my inhibitions.

The lamps were hot. Added to the general heat it felt as if I were in a toaster. Sweat gushed off my limbs. It must have enriched the pictures, for Justin moaned and muttered enthusiastically.

I sensually gyrated my hips. 

I pushed out my tits. I pouted my lips. Go try that when you are the brightly lit center of attention for a half naked Adonis. Hear him empty his camera on you like an automatic gun. You'll discover that it is quite enough to take a horny woman straight to the next level. And beyond. 

It sure did me.

It also caused a wave of recklessness to gush over me. I slowly sashayed forward until I reached Justin. He kept snapping away, concentrating on a swaying nipple. I pushed his camera aside and kissed him hard on his half-open mouth. I felt him gasp as my slick tits made circles on his bare chest.

My tongue met his and we never stopped kissing. 

My hands were on his bulging crotch. I opened his belt and fly. I wriggled down along his body until my face was at level with his cock. It sprang out. 

He sure was excited.

When I closed my lips over his cock-head, I heard the clicking of his camera. I looked up and smiled. My right hand pumped his stem. The left one kneaded his balls.

He took in a sharp breath. But his camera kept clicking.

***

Justin was my youngest conquest to date. 

His youth paid off – he never stopped. We fucked under his hot lamps, on his ancient couch and in his dark room. He took me wherever I could accommodate him. Even between my slippery tits.

He liked that. He took pictures of his cock sliding between the gleaming flesh I pressed together. He also took pictures of me riding him. Some must have been sensational — the sweat was flying off my tits in sparkling arcs. (I never intended for him to keep those, of course.) 

He really was a stud. 

As soon as he came, his limp cock started to fill out again. After he first spurted into my mouth, his stamina was incredible. I had four orgasms before he filled me again.

I loved the taste of his seed. It hardly had the bitter tang that is so common. He must be a health food fan. He also had lots and lots of it.

At last we were both exhausted. 

We lay on his old couch, panting. He grinned. "Too old, eh?" he said. He removed a strand of soaked hair from my sweaty face. Then he kissed my nose. 

"Thank you, Justin," I gasped. "You were wonderful. Do you have a shower?"

***

He was rather crushed when I assured him that this had been the one and only time for us. I also told him he should hand me all the negatives of my naked pictures — especially the ones where we had fucked. 

I knew I had made a mistake letting him photograph me naked. And even while we fucked. Afterwards I could kick myself for being so careless. But it was such a turn on. Vain me had been unable to resist. 

He protested. I was adamant. 

I assured him I wouldn't destroy them. But I had to have them all. Of course I'll never know if he really gave them all to me, but most of his work is through me. I am his lifeline. 

Until he gets famous, of course.

***

I stumbled to the shower. My skin was sticky with cum and sweat. 

The gushing water was heaven. My entire body tingled. When I dried myself I felt the fatigue rush in. It dragged me down like a heavy blanket. I could hardly stand, my knees buckled. I felt as if I'd spent all day in the sun. My crotch felt numb. 

My nipples burned.

When I arrived home, George was already in bed. I silently took off my clothes and slid beside him. He reached out for me in the dark. I groaned.

Yes, I had a headache. Heat wave, you know. Sorry, George. I'll make it up to you.

"Night, honey."



A Tale of Immorality Ch. 05



Chapter Five: A Touch Of Excess 

Your patience must be tried to the limit by now.

The whore's still here and she's smiling. It seems she got away with it once more. God must be sleeping. (With his own wife, we may hope).

I am Anne. I fuck men other than my husband. Women too, at times. I should be punished for that. I shall. Don't worry.

You see, the real fun of sleeping around is in the excitement. All cheaters can tell you. At first it is the thrill of the forbidden. That wears off, it's only human. So we start skirting danger. We get bolder with every new affair.

We just have to.

Plus, I am a sensual woman. I collect treats for my senses. They are like spices. Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme. Hot peppers too, of course.

I am a hunter/gatherer. I take my spices home for my husband and me. He doesn't know where I pick them. He doesn't even know that I pick them. But he enjoys.

I won't lie to you. 

I don't do it for him. I do it mainly for myself. Once in a while I have to indulge. It is like the need to plunge into a shimmering pool on a scourging day. Like the soothing balm on a parched skin. A cooled can against a sweaty brow.

You get it, I'm sure. 

 It is my escape from yawning boredom. It saves my life. And George's, my husband's, for that matter. So in the end, I guess I do it for him, too. In a way.

But yes, it can't last. I push myself closer to disaster with every step. The lusting for the thrill will be my undoing. Our undoing.

But not yet!

***

Lou is the CEO of a huge company. Among others it owns this very old factory where they bake famous china services. Plates and cups and everything. They're not Wedgwood, but close. Their headquarters are in my city.

Lou is feared by his people and his competitors alike. 

He is also one of the wealthiest men in our state. He is tall, about forty, strong and handsome. And he is as blind as a bat.

As you must know by now, I am the PR and marketing officer of a mid-sized but very profitable company that runs a chain of delicatessen and catering shops in two states. It took us a while, but since last year we've become by far the biggest in our part of the country. 

Our reputation has grown accordingly.

Of course I am wiser than to claim credit for that reputation. You see, in PR and advertising there is an unwritten law: when a company is successful, it must be because of its quality, its service and, most of all, its superior management. When things go wrong, it must be us. 

Ah, Anne. Don't get cynical. It ruins your soft, winning smile.

Anyway. My boss loves to know big bosses. So he claims to know Lou well. At the country club he talked Lou into considering a joint promotion with us. That wasn't a small accomplishment, considering that Lou had never consented to doing anything like that before. Let alone be enthusiastic about it.

We had a meeting. 

Normally I'd be there alone or with an assistant. This time my boss wouldn't dream of passing up the opportunity. Of course he hadn't spent a second on getting to know relevant information. But it didn't keep him from talking most of the time.

It was rather embarrassing. 

After a few minutes of silent suffering I got the strange and implausible impression that Lou was staring at me. He wore impenetrably dark glasses, but still it felt as if his eyes were fathoming me.

A bunch of frozen spiders ran up and down my spine.

When my boss fell silent (for the sole reason of having to take a breath), Lou said, "Anne. May I say Anne? I'm Lou. Do you think this project is a good thing?"

His voice seemed to crawl out of a deep cellar. I gathered my wits from where his sudden interruption had shattered them. I had to clear my throat.

"Um. Yes. Uh, Lou, I think there are many instances where our interests overlap." 

I then gave him a few suggestions off the cuff on how we might plan a successful joint promotion.

He smiled weakly and rose. 

"Yes," he said. "Please work on those ideas, Anne. Let's meet in a week. Would that be sufficient time?"

I nodded. Then hurried to say yes.

He again smiled. He walked unerringly to the door. There he turned. "No need for you to waste more of your precious time on this, Alex. I gather Anne and I will be able to create something, uh…beautiful."

He smiled once more. Alex didn't. He is my boss, but I guess you got that.

I don't know why I blushed.

*** 

The next days and nights were hell.

I recruited my entire staff to help me come up with ideas and to visualize them. I am not a fanatic. Surely, you know me by now as someone able to see the relativity of things. Well, this time, forget it. 

I spent the entire week in a daze. I drove myself and my poor colleagues like a sergeant major. We developed enough ideas to last three companies a decade to implement. By the time I was ready for the meeting, I was as nervous as a thoroughbred racehorse at the starting gate.

Then Lou's secretary phoned me. 

She said the meeting wouldn't be at the office, but at Lou's villa. "Uhm," I said, "I presumed there would be more people attending. People who…well…"

There was another mild chuckle. 

"Just go there, honey," she said. "You'll be fine, trust me. Lou's a vegetarian."

***

I knew the villa.

It was famous for its outrageous design. It was only five years old and built by one of those famous Spanish architects. It stood in the small park like a tall ship under full sail. Still, it was simple and tastefully done. And not as big as it appeared from the street.

The gate opened as I drove up. The pebblestones of the circular driveway crunched under my tires. Long, curving d

I was suitably intimidated.

When the door opened, there was no butler or maid. There was just Lou himself. He was clad all in black. It made his body look trim. His hair was pulled back severely. His eyes were hidden by dark glasses. 

Lagerfeld, I thought.

He smiled. Then he extended his hand and used my name as he welcomed me. Couldn't I have been someone else? How did he know it was even me, given his lack of eyesight?

The house was lovely. 

There was a huge hall with a very high sloping ceiling. A wide staircase swept to a mezzanine halfway up. Lou asked me to follow him. He preceded me without hesitation. He never touched a wall or a railing for orientation. Upstairs he asked me for my jacket. How could he know I even wore one?

Then he led me into a library. We sat down in leather chairs. He asked me to pour tea for us. 

"Anne," he said with his deep voice, "I'm confident you've come up with some amazing ideas for our promotion."

I started immediately with my presentation, but his hand rose. "First we have tea, darling." The endearment shocked me. 

He sipped his tea. So did I.

"Maybe, Anne," he then went on, "maybe you should just leave your ideas behind. I am certain they are fantastic. Let's not spoil this lovely afternoon with business."

Here I was still at mach speed, adrenaline choking me, and he just said "don't bother"? I didn't know what to say. I didn't have to. He had already risen and stretched out a hand to me. 

"Let me show you something," he said.

His hand felt warm and dry. He pulled me up from the chair. Then he took me to a tall door at the opposite end of the room. 

Behind it was total blackness.

*** 

I don't know why I followed him inside. The darkness was so complete that I could almost touch it. I never heard the door behind me close.

"Welcome to my world, Anne." I could hardly breathe.

"I hope you forgive me for springing this on you," his voice went on. It sounded as dark as the room. 

I felt fingers touch my arm. I jumped. 

"Sorry, Ann. Please consider it an honor that I invited you into my inner sanctum. Not many women have been here. I seldom open myself up this quickly."

My heart calmed a bit. 

The whole thing had freaked me out incredibly, but strangely enough his voice soothed me. Then there was more. An unexpected rush of pity injected me. I felt a new warmth for this man. He was so powerful. And yet so lonely.

I started reaching out in the dark. I felt utterly helpless.

"Helpless," he whispered. He read my mind. "As helpless as I am in your world. Please allow me a few minutes of superiority."

"What . . ." My voice wavered on a gush of pent-up breath. "What do you expect of me?"

The darkness produced a short chuckle. "Anne," he said. "I know that you are a beautiful woman. I want to see you."

"See?" I said. The word confused me.

"Yes," he said. "With my fingers."

I took in a sharp breath when his intentions became clear.

"Um . . ." I said. I seemed to say a lot of ums around this man.

His hands were on my shoulder and cheek. They didn't startle me anymore. There was a new feeling altogether. I didn't move a muscle.

"Let me undress you."

Oh God. His hands were swift, his fingers nimble. How could he know where all the buttons were, the hooks, the zippers? But he did. And I was naked in a minute. 

His touch was all over me.

My virtual blindness added magic. And when soft open lips found a swollen nipple, I moaned. He touched and kissed me. He licked my shivering skin. His breath was on my throat. And on the insides of my thighs.

"Come, Anne," he said. 

He took my hand and tugged. My bare feet carefully felt their way over the deep carpet. All my senses were wide open. Minus one.

"Lean back," he whispered next to my ear. "Trust me." Why should I? But I did. A smooth slope caught my decline. 

It gave and I had the strange experience of molding it with my body. It felt as if I sank into warm, wet clay. A dizzying feeling of floating came over me 

His tongue, hands and lips resumed their journey over my body. An irresistible force pushed me into a spread eagle stance.  

My brain seemed to sink into the same shapeless substance. A quagmire, I thought. Did I care? Should I? Waves of ignited lust took away my body. And my pussy leaked. 

He was good. Wow, he was incredible!

I tried to find him with my hands, but they were immobilized up and beside me. So were my feet, down below. A new angst attacked me. It stiffened my body.

He stopped at once. 

"Are you all right, Anne?" There was real concern in his voice. It made me melt. The fear dissipated.

"I…I am fine…Lou," I said. It was the voice of a girl I hadn't met in ages. Li'l' Annie of twelve. Scared. But oh so curious.

His mouth was on my cunt. His tongue found my clit. I had never come this quickly before. 

"Yes," he hissed while the lashes of climax hit me. "Darkness is a strong aphrodisiac, my sweet Anne."

***

The orgasm faded.

I hung in the blackest silence. No lips, no fingers.

Then a silver tingle of metal approached. The heightened awareness of my skin noted the closeness of his body. The tiniest touch of his breath.

Suddenly a stark white flash of pain tore the blackness to pieces. It ran like a stake into my left nipple.

I screamed. I have never screamed quite the same before. Or after. I ululated at the top of my lungs. And I felt urine squirt from my bladder.

"NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!"

"STOPPPPPP!"

"GET IT OFF MEEEEEE!!!"

A cruel set of metal teeth seemed to bite halfway through the tender flesh of my nipple. What was it? I didn't care.

"Get it offfff…"

I started to sob. I struggled inside my floating cage. I was in a complete panic. Then the pain disappeared. The hold on me too. I slid down to the floor. Blindly I ran for where I supposed the door was. I bumped into things. I hurt my shins, my shoulder.

Then dim lights came on. I grabbed the neat pile of my clothes and pulled at the door. It opened and I almost fell through it.

"I'm so sorry," a voice said behind me. It was only much later that I remembered having heard it. 

It had sounded so forlorn.

*** 

I raced home in a daze.

I sat in a corner, hugging myself and sobbing until George came home. He rushed to me, his face a study of deep concern. He held me. He never asked what happened. He just hugged me and told me things were all right.

I didn't know what to tell him. 

I was scared beyond reason. He took me in his arms and let me sink down in a soothing bath. Curiously (and luckily) there were no obvious marks on my smarting nipple.

After a long time, George asked me if I wanted to tell him. I shook my head no. The heat of the water had ironed out all the sharp folds and crinkles of my panic.

He dried me in a huge fluffy blanket. Then he took me to bed. He held my hand until I wasn't aware of it anymore.

I slept for ten hours.

*** 

"I guess I worked too hard."

"I think so, Anne."

"Maybe I should take a few weeks off."

"Great idea, honey. They still owe me a week. Let's go to soak up a bit of exotic sun."

"I love you, George."

"I know, Anne. But not as much as I love you."

I had no cause to argue that.

We kissed.



A Tale of Immorality Ch. 06



Chapter Six: A Taste Of Doom 

One might say I learned a lesson. Of sorts.

When we returned from St. Kitts, Lou's company had not turned its back on us. There was a signed contract on my desk. Lou went with the most expensive and ambitious of the joint venture ideas I had come to present.

Alex was proud. I just groaned. I told him I would not work on it if it meant meeting Lou again. His eyebrows rose. But he never asked.

I was faithful to George for the rest of that year. And beyond.

That sounds more heroic than it was. It was easy not to cheat. For one reason because I felt no urge at all to do it. And secondly, George's sweet unselfish reactions to my panic attack shamed me out of all interest I might have developed.

I felt no guilt for giving in to Lou's advances. I was just shocked by the way I had come to take George's love for granted. I promised that I would never do that again.

But, well, you know me by now. I am not a noble person. George is, I am not.

*** 

Our company had long since discovered the magical marketing powers of wine tasting sessions. The combination of a luxury hotel, good food, music and the intoxicating presence of expensive European wines never failed to bring together crowds of exactly the right people.

Enter, Alec.

Alec was a connoisseur of wines. (And an alcoholic, I'm sure. Probably a professional hazard.) He looked the part. He wore his fifty years in the most suave way. Considering his hedonistic lifestyle he looked remarkably fit, even elegant. His hair was pepper and salt. It curled artistically over his collar. I never liked mustaches much, but his seemed at ease with his personality. 

He dressed expensively. And I don't know what sun shines in wine cellars, but he always had a tan.

*** 

Our wine-tasting events had grown in popularity since we brought Alec into play. He had charm and effervescence. His casual use of all the right wine lingo made the middle-aged ladies flock to him in herds. They lapped it up like puppies.

I was rather skeptical. Until that one night at the Hilton.

Alec had guided us through an impressive army of Cote du Rhones and St. Emilions. We of course were supposed to spit out what we tasted. We were to nibble on a crumb of baguette before tasting the next glass and then spit it out again. But hey, those were great wines. 

They got even better as the evening wore on. To boil the whole thing down to its essence, I was rather buzzed when the clock neared eleven. And so were quite a few of our lady guests.

Alec was marvelous. 

He never stopped amusing us with jokes and anecdotes. He dropped names and warmed us with stories of far away chateaux and ooh la la places.

Don't make me explain how we ended up at the hotel bar. Don't even begin to ask me how I ended up in his hotel bed. I tasted and didn't spit. His crunchy baguette never lost its freshness. The heady bouquet of our heated sex wafted through the room. 

Even the after taste was pleasant.

There was no sense in waking up George to tell him he'd better not wait up, don't you agree? Yes, I know. I am a bad girl. I can't be cured.

***

I crawled into our marital bed long after George had fallen asleep. I was quiet enough not to wake him up, I hope. He never commented.

He just asked how things had been when he returned from work the next evening. I of course had slept in that morning. I never heard him leave. I did make a glorious dinner, though. George has this stomach weakness, you know. I mean he loves good food.

I waited for him wearing only an apron and holding out a glass of a rather expensive malt whiskey. Both were gone in the blink of an eye.

The wine with the dinner was one (actually, two) of the highly praised Cote du Rhones of the night before. I pointed out all of its qualities to George. I even remembered two or three of the juicier anecdotes.

We went to bed. There we devoted the rest of the night to another very satisfying tasting session. And to the expert nibbling of another excellent baguette. Home baked.

Ah well, I may be bad. But I'm good.

***

My next lover was Mr. Garfield.

He was the one I didn't have sex with. I never even used his first name. To be totally correct, we never even met.

He lives in California, where he owns quite a few vineyards. We were a client of his. His white wines especially became a featured highlight in our catalogue.

Mr. Garfield hated meeting people. 

The two times we visited his lovely mansion, he apologized for not being able to see us. I understand he always does this. So I never came eye to eye with Mr. Garfield. 

I did see a few pictures. They were rather vintage, I guess. They also might have been from Errol Flynn or another long-gone Hollywood actor. I looked it up. Gregory Peck, most likely.

Mr. Garfield must be ancient. 

So he may not have had a face, but he did have a voice. It was the kind that crawls up to you and slips under your skin. The velvet kind of voice that you disparage when you talk with your friends. "Too schmaltzy," you tell them. "Too smooth an operator." But you never say how it makes your pussy flow.

Mr. Garfield was also a master of the seductive word.

So when I say I didn't have sex with him, I am only legally right. Let's say in the Clinton way. To be true, I had some of the steamiest sex with Mr. Garfield, and I never left my office for it.

Mr. Garfield made me do things. Like taking off my bra and playing with my nipples. Or wriggling out of my panties and touching my itchy clit. 

One day he made me sit at my desk completely naked without locking my door.

Another day he told me to hang up the phone and return home. I was to remove all of my underwear and then retrieve my vibrator from the bedroom, take it back to my office, set it for the highest speed and then slip it into my cunt and wait for him to call me.

It might take a while, he said, but I was forbidden to orgasm until he called.

"Do you understand, Anne?"

"Yes, Mr. Garfield. No coming until you call."

"Good girl. Now run." I was a good girl.

He called after I had already been back for half an hour. It was the most excruciating half hour of my life. It took only the first ringing of my phone to make me come like a volcano. I still shuddered with after-spasms when he asked me if it was me he heard screaming.

I understand it was his third time asking.

***

Things changed from then on.

Not that I fucked less. And not that I violated the Law of Anne concerning the uniqueness of each fuck. Let's just say, I lost my innocence. 

Don't laugh. It makes perfect sense. 

You see, I never felt guilt after any of my escapades. They were mine and they were hermetically separated from what I felt for George. As a matter of fact, they made me appreciate George even more.

I never allowed there to be bridges between my lovers and my love.

That changed.

***

It changed the afternoon I flew back in from New York. I had spent a weekend there for business. But it had only been very superficially devoted to that.

His name was Gustav.

He was a Swede in all the exciting ways they make them. Tall, blonde, athletic. We toured Manhattan together. We did some shopping and some drinking. Then we had a long and delightful dinner.

After that we never left his hotel room again until I had to fly back.

When I walked into the arrivals hall — or rather limped into it, feeling very, very sore — George was waiting for me with a wide smile, an endless hug and a toy puppy.

I cried like a baby.

This needs some explaining.

I never told you that George and I can't have children. It's because of George's low sperm count. It was very hard for both of us when we learned of the problem. That was in the second year of our marriage.

I wanted kids very much. I still do. So does George. 

We tried everything medically possible. Nothing worked. Even in vitro fertilization (IVF) with donor sperm was not an option — George had insurmountable problems with me carrying another man's baby, even if the father would be anonymous. Just broaching the subject made him impotent for days.

Adoption would have been the only option left, and I didn't want that. Not just because I wanted to bear and deliver my own child. It was also because statistics frown rather severely on the success of raising an adopted child.

So we had gotten used to the idea of not having children. But George is the sweetest of men, as you must understand by now, hence, the soft puppy doll. (Yes, I know. Rather ironic. Especially since I had at that time started fucking around on him.)

The puppy was sweet. So was the hug. But the most incredible thing was what he whispered in my ear. The same ear that had been tongue-fucked by my Swedish lover, not two hours earlier.

He said we should have a baby. Even if the sperm had to be another man's.

I cried. So did he.

***

Who could fuck around on a man like that? Even I couldn't.

George, it seemed, had already made an appointment with a clinic specializing in in vitro fertilization. We had a very long interview at the clinic. Patience was a word used frequently throughout our discussions. So was the warning not to have our hopes set too high.

They would once more try to use George's seed. 

I went with him to collect it. I ached at the thought of leaving him to do it alone in the sad little room with its dated Playboy Magazines and sleazy pin-up calendars.

His ejaculation was intense. I had put everything I had in the blowjob that preceded it. It is curiously one of the most precious memories I have.

After two months the clinic gave up on George's sperm. 

They asked us if we had a special donor in mind. It was a difficult question. We had been talking about that a lot. George couldn't get over the idea of knowing the father. I, on the other hand, had problems not knowing the genetic history of an anonymous donor. 

It got us stuck for a while.

Of course I did not sleep around on George during that period. Ever since he gave me the puppy doll and the present, the mere thought of cheating on him made me squirm with guilt. How could I go out to get fucked by someone else? I knew that even taking the seed of an in vitro donor was so very difficult for George.

After four months of trying and talking, our love-making changed. That is to say, I stopped making love to George. 

I started fucking him. I have no other word for it.

We had always made the sweetest, longest and most considerate love ever invented. It was why I had married George. It was what I had needed. It was the staple of my existence. Through the years, our lovemaking had become the essence of who we were to each other. It was our glue. It was the warmth that kept our blood running, our pulse beating. 

But in the end it was not enough for me.

One night George went down on me. He has the most expert mouth and tongue. He takes at least half an hour to build me up. The teasing drives me crazy. It nudges me up a mountain slope. But it is a slope that doesn't seem to rise at all. Only when he at last pushes me over the edge do I see how dizzyingly high he has taken me. 

And I soar with the exasperating cries of an eagle. 

That night I pushed him away within minutes. His eyes went wide. I grabbed his hard cock and mounted it. I rode him like a crazed cowgirl. I plunged myself down on his pole. Then I rose along its slippery flesh and yanked myself down again.

It hurt me. It must have hurt him too. 

But within two minutes I had the most animalistic orgasm I had ever had with him. I'd had those with my lovers. It was brutal. It was inconsiderate. It was all I looked for when I cheated on George. 

So now I had cheated with George. I had taken his love and trampled on it. I had grabbed what was ours and used it for myself. I had shown George an Anne he had never met.

When I came back to my senses, his penis had wilted. But there was no sperm in my cunt.

***

I never apologized to him.

But I also never did it again. Not with him. I had learned that the only protection for our love was for me to let the animal out with strange and onetime lovers. I had to do my crazy fucking elsewhere.

And I did. I do.

What started as a whimsical chase of thrills has now become an urgent need. If I don't cheat on my loving husband, I'll destroy our love.

Please tell me, did Satan ever concoct a more devilish dilemma? Good thing I don't believe in him. But yes, just lose the letter d and you'll find quite enough evil inside yourself.



A Tale of Immorality Ch. 07



Chapter Seven: A Stroke Of Consequence

I am George. I like to walk in the rain.

Especially when it's dark. I love to watch the slick shine of the wet asphalt. I like the yellow streetlamps highlighting every splashing raindrop. I push my hands deep into my pockets.

And I walk.

Whenever I need to think, I walk. Rain or shine. Rain and shine, today. The leaves over my head are heavy with water. The drops accumulate and splash onto my skull. They are wet and cold. They are welcome.

Today I walk.

But today there are no thoughts. Oh, there are thoughts. A multitude of them. One more horrid than the other. But they are not allowed into the shelter of my brain. They must stay outside. Let them huddle under that carport over there. Or at the bus stop. Get lost, you damn thoughts and nightmares.

Leave me to the dark little kingdom of my misery.

**********************************************

My name doesn't matter. Call me George. Call her Anne. Or call her a slut, if you like. Call me a clown. I don't care.

What she did doesn't need much explanation. It happened to a billion men before me. And another billion after me will see it happen to them. Unless the world decides to call it a day and puts an end to our collective misery.

You won't need much explanation about what I did, either. It's over. I severed all the ties we had. All of them. The strong ties and the delicate ones. It made the blood flow. The sweet and pulsing blood of the heart.

Mine mostly, I guess.

I don't know about her. Did she bleed? I can't say. I really don't know a lot about her anymore. Maybe I never did. But I know I shall end up a walking ghost, an anemic skeleton.

I'll bleed to the last pint.

I guess the first thing to do is to stop this self-pity. But I can't. Not yet.

I am entitled to some self-pity, am I not? For God's sake, it has been an hour now. Leave me some slack, will you? Please, for a minute hold back your damned advice on how a real man should act. Fuck you. I don't even believe you have a wife yourself. So stuff your easy shit talk.

I should hate her, you say.

But what shabby hate is that? What's the value of it? You don't even know what love is. Be honest. Do you really? I don't think so. I loved her, man. I still love her, dammit. And now look! Watch how my heart twitches in my hands. It is bleeding to death.

Look!

Ah yes. Now your real men's eyes look away, eh? Why do you look away? Are you afraid of some blood?

Or are you disgusted with a man showing his feelings?

**********************************************

Anne and I have been married for almost nine years.

I guess it is a cliché to say they were the best years of my life. But they were. They were magical and yet so very common. There was the simple ease of being together. The understanding. There was the warm, uncomplicated shelter of her love. The sex too. Sex has always been important to us. Anne was like this delicately tuned instrument. A Stradivarius violin, say. Or a Bechstein piano.

Just playing her took my breath away. Oh yes, I did love to play her. Did. (Have to get used to this past tense. I'll learn, don't worry.)

But Anne was gorgeous in so many other ways. It was a party to simply sit with her at the end of a working day. Just discussing what happened, the little things. Knowing that she'd listen and hear whatever was important to me.

And for me to sit and listen to her common sense, her witty responses.

In the second year of our marriage it became apparent that I could not give her children. It was a cruel blow. I know Anne wanted them. I'd have loved them too.

I considered adoption. She did not want that. She talked about finding a donor. I could not live with that idea. I guess I am a jealous man, after all. (Ha! But you know that by now.)

We stopped talking about it.

I knew it hurt her. It was a sneaking hurt. It was like mourning after a death. I guess that's when Anne decided to make a career for herself. Maybe even a life.

She did the marketing and PR for a fast growing chain of delicatessen shops and catering facilities. She was working hard and doing well. But more than making money she enjoyed working with creative and adventurous people, she said. Adventurous.

It was such a contrast to my job.

I am head of sales at the local branch of a large national insurance company. It is where I started after college. I never saw a reason to leave. It only took me a few years to rise through the ranks to my present position. The only thing that worried me was that my next step might involve moving to headquarters. It would force Anne to give up her precious job.

Ah well...another dilemma solved, I guess.

Did I ever see a reason to suspect Anne? In hindsight, I guess I might have.

These last months have been...strange. One weekend she came back from a business trip. At the airport I told her that I would be fine with her getting an in vitro pregnancy. Even with the seed of another man. She cried. So did I. I think we were never as close as we were in the months after that. We were hardly ever apart anymore. And we made love almost every night.

Then she started acting weird.

One night she fucked me like an animal. She was aggressive. She controlled me. And she rode my cock to tatters. Then she came like a volcano. I have never heard her scream like she did. She lost consciousness and slid off my fast shrinking penis.  

I just went limp. I never came.

So was this reason to doubt her faithfulness? That she fucked me too hard? That she had an incredible orgasm with me? No, of course not.

I think it would have been unreasonable to expect me to have seen it coming.

**********************************************

They say that shocking events "open your eyes."

Seeing what I saw an hour ago surely qualifies as shocking. But I'd say they grow you a new set. New eyes that were especially made to see things differently. In the final analysis, however, I guess they are just as biased as the old ones.

The old eyes saw and judged Anne in a halo of unconditional love. The new ones see her in the stark and naked glare of betrayal.

Of course new eyes make you see different things. They help you remember moments from the past. Like how she hadn't been home one night. Or how she forgot to call me twice, while away. Another time someone at a party asked her how she had liked the newly- opened restaurant downtown. We had not yet visited it at the time. Of course, she might have gone there with a client or a colleague, but now my new eyes helped me remember that she had blushed.

There are a million things to see, once you allow yourself to look. Things you once innocently parked within the cozy margins of trust and good faith. And to be honest: I would love to do that again.

But my new eyes say, no.

Anyway, it's all immaterial now, isn't it?

**********************************************

It was by accident the way I found out. I guess it always is.

I should have been a thousand miles away. Wish I had been, but I wasn't. The director of sales at headquarters had asked me to come visit for a talk. My heart raced. It must have been for the expected (feared?) promotion.

I told Anne the night before leaving. I would take a plane the next late afternoon.

But the man called me next morning at the office. He phoned from the airport. He suddenly had to be at our branch office anyway, so he'd meet me as soon as he arrived, this afternoon. Would save me a flight.

I tried to reach Anne to tell her about the change of plans. She wasn't at her office. And she didn't answer her phone.

I'd try again later.

I picked up the visitor. It was already past six when he finally got his luggage. I was still unable to reach Anne. As it was too late to go to the office, I told him I'd take him to his hotel.

On the way we decided to have our talk over dinner.

Well, as it happened, Anne was in the dining room of the same hotel. I saw her from a distance. Her back was towards me. For a second I thought it might be nice to walk up to her and introduce her to my colleague.

Then she kissed the man opposite her.

It was a kiss I knew. Up 'til then I'd even thought it was a kiss only I knew. I was proven wrong, obviously.

I stood frozen. It felt as if my heart had been plunged into a bucket of ice water. From a far distance a voice asked me if I were all right. How silly we are. Life seems to have this urge to push us on. My head slowly nodded. I smiled at my guest and showed him to our table. We sat down.

And still the kiss went on.

A few huge plants half hid us from their table. It was easy for me to watch them. Ha, easy. I had a good look at the guy. He was about my age, maybe a bit older. The tall and handsome kind, I gather.

I knew Anne had taste.

His hand was wrapped around hers. Their eyes never left each other's. And there was a lot to laugh about.

The constant buzz in my ears made it hard to hear what my table companion said. I knew when to nod and when to grumble something encouraging. I am a trained salesman.

But my eyes were always at the distant table.

It seemed they were spooning dessert, sharing little bites in a perfectly pink setting of lovey-dovey intimacy. Her hand touched his face when she fed him a spoonful. Then they kissed again.

My stomach turned.

I excused myself and went to find the men's room. I took care not to be noticed.

The tiles were cool against my forehead. The heaving of my stomach subsided. I threw some water in my face and left again. I was right in time to see them walk by.

**********************************************

There was no need to worry that they might see me.

Anne had both arms around his waist. Her head was against his chest. His one hand was on her ass, the other in her hair. They went to the elevators. When the doors closed on them I saw his hand slide into the low top of her dress.

She giggled.

The ancient elevators showed huge lighted numbers where they stopped. I took the stairs two and three steps at a time, reaching the third floor. I saw them walk into a corridor, their back to me. They were almost like a single four-legged creature.

They went into the fourth door, using an old- fashioned hotel key.

My heart calmed down. So did my breathing. Only my brain kept racing. Pictures flooded in. Horrible pictures that I tried to push out. The kissing. The obscene giggles as a huge hand grabbed a white tit.

I knew that I should not go in. I knew. But I had to.

The door looked strong. I put my ear to it, but there were no sounds. I walked down the corridor. Around a corner stood a heavy vacuum cleaner. I pushed it to the door. My back groaned when I lifted it. I stumbled forward and crashed through the entrance.

The momentum took me right through the tiny hall. I stopped in front of the bed. Anne sat on her knees. Her dress hung around her waist. Her mouth hovered over a hard, swollen cock.

Both Anne and her lover crawled back on the bed. They tried to cover their faces in defense.

I just stood there.

I held the metal tube of the cleaner in my hand. Then I swung it and hit the guy's head.

His hand was too slow. He dropped in front of Anne. She screamed and tried to get out of reach.

I grabbed her hair and pulled her towards me. Her face was very close now.

"You whore."

I didn't hiss the word, nor scream. It sounded clipped, matter of fact.

Then I hit her face and hit it again.

A hand slapped me. The guy. He came on to me. There was blood on his face. I had to retire to the tiny desk. It held a marble lamp. I grabbed it. It was heavy, but I lifted it over my head and crashed it on his protecting arm.

There was a sickening, splintering sound. He screamed.

I just swung again, hitting his skull. Another crunching sound. He stopped screaming. Anne did not. She called my name and crawled forward to stop me. She shouldn't have.

There was blood everywhere. Lots of blood.

**********************************************

Walk, George. Keep walking.

Bury your bloody hands deep. Let the rain clean you. Let it clean your splattered face, your bloodied soul.

Walk on. They'll get you. But not yet.

Hear the train whistle?

Can't be far.

Walk.

*****************************************



A Tale of Immorality Ch. 08



Chapter Eight: A Foretaste of Damnation

He must have thought he killed us both. He should have.

I am Anne. I betrayed my husband. And in the end I was unable to stop my betrayal. He found out, of course. He killed my lover. He almost killed me.

Then he killed himself.

No. I killed him.

I know. I have no right to live on. But I do.

I could annoy you with repentance and remorse, but I won't. Not because I don't honestly feel it. I do feel remorse, about ten tons of it and they all weigh

on my heart.

But there is no point, is there?

My love is dead. George is gone. So is every dream I ever had. I carelessly and thoughtlessly threw them away. I betrayed and killed the one good thing I'd carried within me — George's love.

What's left of me is just trash. Worthless trash to be put away and destroyed. I should follow him as soon as they let me out of this hospital.

But I can't.

**********************************************

I remember the ice-cold flash of damnation. George's face was dark and ugly with rage. I remember the sense of finality.

The shame.

I was on my knees on the bed. The tip of Ralph's hard cock rested on the curl of my tongue. The painted nails of my fingers dug into the hard flesh of his ass cheeks. I pulled him towards me. I had to have him, to swallow him. My tits swung freely down from my chest. A sweet and familiar cloud of lust set my mind afloat.

I must have looked the whore I was.

No classy affair, this. No subtle titillation of the senses. No carefully planned adventure. Not even the thrill of the deliciously forbidden, anymore. No excuses, no sparkling sheen of glamour. I had become a greedy slut. I just had to have my cock. And lots of it.

There was no romance left.

Ralph and I had just grabbed a rushed dinner in the closest hotel at hand. It was a rendez-vousrendezvous I hastily improvised as soon as my husband left town. It was a badly-concealed excuse for what I really wanted — a sleazy night of greedy fucking.

Ah, Anne. What ever were you thinking? It was just delusion, honey. Delusion was all it added up to.

On that hotel bed my world came to an end.

There was his sudden face. He was a revenging angel from darkest Hades. I heard the sickening crush of bones. My naked body fled from his towering aggression.

I guess it was my voice that screamed his name.

Blood splashed like a hot shower over my exposed chest and face. Still the fury went on. I heard someone beg and simper. It must have been me. The dead

weight of a large body fell against me.

Then all lights went out.

**********************************************

The white was clean. It was all around me.

So was the silence, punctuated by murmuring bleeps.

Hospital, my mind said. Crispy sheets, rubbery pillows.

My head was bandaged. So was my chest. There was no pain. There were no feelings at all, actually. I knew I was there. But I really wasn't.

I drifted.

A clear plastic bag sent drips to my wrist. I saw my idle hand. The garishly painted nails lay like little blood drops in a field of virgin snow.

Memories rushed back in. I moaned. Tears burned the rims of my eyes. Ah, sad crocodile. Too little, too late. A murderess you are.

I guess they fed me drugs.

Awful pains tore at my consciousness. But they

were subdued. Fat pillows of artificial indifference smothered my feelings.

Oh brave new world of perfect sedation.

**********************************************

I later heard it took me four days to struggle out of my luke-warm private pool of misery. I came up and gasped the air of cruel reality. It froze me stiff with horror.

I remembered. I relived. I died of shame.

But life hates unbearable emotions. It put a wall between my horror and me. Survival, they call it.

I had visitors, other than the doctors and nurses.

Family came by, and friends and colleagues. Even Antoine and Alec. They told me what happened. I just

groaned when they said I'd get better.

Better.

My sister told me how George had died. She was ever so careful. But she might as well have plunged a dagger into me. He had already been buried, she said. So was Ralph, in far away Detroit. Only George's closest family was at the funeral.

I cried.

I cried for a day and a night. I pumped out rivers of tears. But afterwards I didn't feel any cleaner. I was dirty, evil Anne, I always would be.

No respite for the whoring slut.

**********************************************

Weeks passed. They grew into months.

The police came by. There wasn't much to tell them. I got a hateful letter from Ralph's wife. I could understand her grief. Should I feel guilty for her too?

There was no room left.

I did not return to work. I did physical therapy to get my body functioning again. I also did psychological therapy to get my mind straight. The first was successful. The second, ah, well.

Let's say there were days I did not cry.

Let's say there are more days now that I don't cry. I sit. I stare. I walk. I talk. People try to draw me back to the world of the living. Sweet people. Stupid people.

Antoine cooked for me. I could not eat. Alec came over with a very expensive bottle. I sent him away. I told both of them never ever to visit me again.

I sit alone.

As alone as I should be. I feel sick. Nauseous. Empty. I feel I don't belong here. Not in this world where my love could not live.

The truth, Anne. You don't belong in this world where you killed your love.

**********************************************

I betrayed and killed George's love.

It was the one good thing inside this evil body. What's left of me is just trash. Worthless trash to be put away and destroyed. I should have followed him as soon as they let me out of the hospital.

But I didn't. And now I can't.

I am pregnant.

I know. The chance that the child is George's is almost non-existent. But that tiny chance is big enough to leave me no escape.

I'll bear the child. I'll bring it into the world. I'll call it George. Or Georgina. I don't care if it isn't his. It'll always be his.

I shall love it.

I shall be its slave.

********************************************

THE END