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The Cuckold Waltz Ch. 1

By: jamespatrick2001



Do you ever lie in bed late at night and wonder: 'How the fuck did I get from there to here?' Three nights in a row trying to get comfortable on a granite-hard bed in the ice cold guest room – no wonder friends rarely stayed a whole weekend – had given me plenty of time to think about that. And to regret what I'd done. Okay, perhaps not so much time to regret as, well, time to regret being found out. 

At least it stopped me worrying about what would happen once she threw me out and I was left living in a drab little flat, with a staircase reeking of cabbage and flatulence. She'd probably let me keep this bastard bed as a form of punishment. Somewhere I could sit sewing back on the sleeves of the shirts and jackets she'd thoughtfully cut off when in the full throes of her righteous wronged-woman rage.

A car swung into the close. I tensed. Was it her? It drew to a halt outside. No, she would have parked on the drive. The engine continued running. Chances were it was a taxi. She'd gone out about six, slamming the door and crunching through the gears - just in case I had forgotten that I was officially The Enemy - not saying where she was going or who with. However haywire things had gone, though, she wouldn't leave the car. I was sure of that.

"That's very, very kind of you," I heard her say, deliberately and loudly. Shit, she sounded pissed. Maybe there was enough time to throw on a pair of trousers and climb down the drainpipe and head for the hills before she got upstairs.

The taxi driver said something I couldn't catch and she laughed that dirty laugh she had, the one that always seemed at odds with her slightly demure, though immaculately presented, self.

Four-inch heels clatter uncertainly up the pathway. Pissed, she would probably march in here and set about me with a giant frozen haddock. Deep breaths, I told myself. With a bit of luck she'd just stumble off to what was no longer 'our room' and sleep it off. Then I could sneak out early in the morning and hope the storm had eased a little by the time our paths next crossed.

After a few fumblings and muffled swearing, the front door opened. Loud footsteps on the stairs. Not even a detour to the kitchen for a drink of water. She probably couldn't wait to test the efficacy of the electrodes with the special genital attachments I feared she might have been out buying. 

The bedroom door swung open; a click of the switch and Jackie was there, leaning on the doorframe in the sudden flood of light. She was definitely pissed. This could be bad…very, very bad. Mind you, at least if I needed long-term hospital care I'd have a roof over my head for a while. And, of course, there would always be the nurses as a bit of compensation. If dick-less men could enjoy such compensations, that is.

Her dark blonde hair was showing signs of having been caught in a high wind or something. Slightly dishevelled, she didn't look as if she was about to strike.

I wondered if the relief I felt was just a false sense of security. After all, there was still an outside chance that the electrodes and the haddock might be concealed in the skin-tight electric blue mini-dress that had been sprayed on to her curves. Was it new? I hadn't seen her wear it before. And why was I wondering about that at a time like this?

Hanging on to the wall, she slipped off the shoes and advanced slowly, sensuously almost, across the room, stopping a few feet from the bed. A distinct ruby flush confirmed the pissed diagnosis. Her brown eyes, which for the last few days had eloquently spoken of a huge, hard anger, were as soft as they always had been before she had called me into the kitchen and showed me her discovery. I like to think that she overreacted a tad. I mean, what kind of woman flies into a rage over a pair of cunt-stained knickers, even if they are someone else's cunt-stained knickers? Okay, most women.

Her body language was different now. She was less rigid, less threatening for a start. Even though the next time I would see her would probably be when she flung my shoes out of the bedroom window after me, I took on board the fact that she looked very, very sexy indeed. Not that tall, but slim and soft, with legs that were longer than they had any right to be. A Raymond Chandler line came back to me: 'She was a blonde, a blonde to make a Bishop kick a hole in a stained glass window.' Of course, lovely as she looked, the only thing likely to be going through a window, stained or not, was me.

Then she dropped the bombshell.

"I'm horny and I need a fuck," she whispered, then she giggled through the hand that had moved up to cover her mouth, as if she couldn't believe what it was saying.

I must have misheard. It wouldn't be the first time. I stared at her mutely. I may have said: "Sorry, what was that?" Or I may have just cleared my throat and eyed the distance to the window.

Then, for the benefit of the newly dumb adulterer, she repeated it more loudly, and, just to make it perfectly clear, added: "I've got a wet cunt and I want a hard cock." She stressed the words 'cock' and 'cunt' in case I missed them.

Now, all she had said to me since Tuesday had been those three little words – "You fucking bastard!" – so things appeared to be looking up. "Right", I said contritely, contrition being the best defence. "Anything you say, Jackie. Anything you say."

What the hell had she been drinking? When did they start selling 'Forgiveness Juice' in pubs? Was she all 'loved up' E or something? Still, she wasn't shouting at me, so perhaps it wasn't a trap after all. Maybe she was after a fuck for old times sake. And who could refuse her that? My sense of shock started to ebb away. Little did I know how quickly it would return.

"Too right, anything I say!" she said, a harder edge to her voice now. She began to pull the dress up over her thighs, wriggling a little as she did so. Fucking hell! She wasn't wearing knickers AND she'd shaved her cunt. I mean, she hadn't shaved her cunt for me for about two bastard years!

She smiled as she saw me staring at her. "Do you like my bald cunt?" she asked matter-of-factly. "You know, the taxi driver liked it. He liked it a lot. I showed him as I got out of the cab. He didn't charge me. Wasn't that nice of him?"

Head reeling, confusion swimming round my overloaded brain, I managed some sort of grunt in reply. 

"Mmmm, yes," she said. "It was very, very sweet of him. I hope he drops me off next time! She looked towards my lower half concealed beneath the covers. "Are you nice and hard?"

Of course I was hard! This time I managed to blurt out the word "uuuuuhhh!" and she laughed that laugh. "Good, because I'm going to fuck your brains out. You know, perhaps I should have shagged the taxi driver before I came in. Hmmm, yes, I think he might have liked that."

What the fuck was going on here? Six hours ago, she wanted to kill me and now she's standing there naked, gently circling her clit with her index finger and offering to fuck my brains out, while wondering if she should have shagged the cabbie on the way in. My pretty, bright, placid, slightly shy wife had been taken over by porn star aliens and is now slowly, slightly clumsily, straddling my face.

Mid-straddle, she stops as if struck a by a thought. "You've been a very naughty boy, haven't you? Putting your fat cock into some little slut's cunt and leaving all your spunk up inside her. Very, very naughty."

Amanda is not a little slut, I thought. She's a respectable married woman. But I say nothing, following the old Chinese proverb that says something about the wisdom of silence. Besides, saying anything might seriously damage the new and bizarre rapprochement that has been established. I nod, not sure whether she can see me.

That's when I realise she is soaking wet, juice streaking her upper thighs. I am enveloped in the heady aroma of her cunt.

"What do naughty boys deserve?" she asks almost sternly.

Spanking, I wonder? But Chinese wisdom prevails. A quick shrug of the shoulders marks me down as the dunce of the class.

"Naughty boys deserve naughty girls," she intones. "And I've been a very naughty girl." 

Cunt-flashing the taxi driver? Yep, that's pretty naughty. Oh, but there's more. As she lowers herself down on to my face I realise just how naughty she's been. I can smell it. Spunk - and obviously not my spunk, either. Another man has been fucking my wife. How dare they do that to me!

"Naughty girls need cleaning up to get rid of the evidence, so no-one knows how dirty they've been," she says as she begins to rub herself across my face. "Lick it. Go on, clean my cunt so no-one knows what a dirty little whore I am."

She's never been 'a dirty little whore'. But, despite myself, I begin to lap at her. Slowly at first, then more urgently to match the increasingly fierce thrusts against my mouth. It doesn't quite taste the same as mine, but it is recognisably male cum. I am angry, confused, horrified and at the same time, for reasons I can't fathom, incredibly aroused. And another thing, Jackie doesn't know it but this is a taste of my own medicine in a way even I could never have foreseen.

"His cock was bigger and fatter than yours," she said, a touch unnecessarily I thought. "My cunt was so full of him and his balls were sooooo full of cum I thought I'd drown when he emptied inside me. So big and so hard. And such a great fuck!"

Now, that kind of talk isn't really designed to boost a man's ego, but I wasn't in a position to complain, not least because I had an extremely sloppy cunt pressed hard against my mouth and talking wasn't one of the options available to me.

"And now you're going to fill me up with your lovely cock, and empty all your hot spunk up into my dirty little cunt."

That was more like it! I returned to my cunt-licking with renewed gusto. She stopped abruptly and, in a flurry of limbs, slid down my body and smoothly impaled herself upon my dangerously engorged cock. I was in her to the hilt immediately. Christ, he must have been pretty big, I thought nervously. 

Within a couple of minutes, I realised that I couldn't stop myself. I started to spurt inside her. Any chance of stopping the flow was ruined by her almost inaudible: "Fuck it up me! Go on, fuck that hot cum into my sloppy little hole! Mix it with his spunk, then lick me out again." 

Never in eight years of marriage had she talked like that. But, again, I didn't complain.

She tumbled off me and I had to struggle to slow my heartbeat. I lay there for a moment, amazed, shocked, disgusted and still bloody horny. She was grinning slyly at me.

"Well," she said. "You started it." 

And I couldn't argue with that. Here I was, the cuckolder cuckolded and Jackie didn't know the half of it. And, as it turned out, neither did I. But we'd find out soon enough. And I still hadn't worked out how I got from there to here. But we'll work that one out next time.

To be continued (if anyone likes it, that is!)

The Cuckold Waltz Ch. 2



The phone shocked me out of my post-fuck torpor. Amanda lay naked and sweating on the carpet beside me, her freshly fucked cunt awash with my spunk. She had a 'cat who got the cream' look on her face, and was gently teasing my cock back into life in readiness for round two. It looked like we were in for a long evening.

I rolled over and picked up the receiver. "Hello?"

"It's me," said the wife, hands free on the mobile. "Do we need anything picking up from the shop? Milk, tea bags, bread?"

Milk, tea bags, bread? What the fuck was she on about? She was hundreds of miles away in Brugge or Brussels or somewhere else beginning with 'B'. I could never remember where she was, only how long she'd be away. Jackie had gone early yesterday morning and it was now Tuesday evening. Three days before she was due back. I knew she was due back Friday, I'd only just booked the table while Amanda was in the bathroom.

I repeated her question.

"Yes, do we need anything?" Slightly irritated now. 

"On Friday?"

"No. Now."

"Where are you?" I asked, panic rising.

"Just leaving the motorway."

Just leaving the motorway bounced around my brain for crucial seconds. "I thought you were in Brussels. I thought you were back Friday."

"I was in Berne. Didn't you get my e-mail? It was called off last night."

E-mail? You're my fucking wife! You phone me, you don't e-mail me. Not when I've got an evening's extra-marital shagging on the cards.

"Right, I see." Think quickly. She's about eight minutes away. Make her stop at the shop. Think of something we need.

"Bleach," I said.

"Bleach?" she asked.

"Yes, bleach, we're out of it." Why the fuck had I said bleach? What do I care about bleach? If we had any, I'd have to pour it down the sink now. "And milk, we're out of that too." I'd have to pour three and a half pints of the stuff down the sink after the bastard bleach. "Toilet roll, I think we need some toilet roll." People always need toilet roll. They never know when their wives are going to phone up and catch them fucking the girlfriend on the rug in front of the marital fire. A sure fire cure for constipation, that one.

Amanda has propped herself up on one elbow, mouthing the words 'who is it?' like a lousy mime on speed.

"Okay. See you in about ten minutes."

Ten minutes? Shit! Amanda is dripping spunk on to the carpet (better not use up the bleach on that). Her clothes are strewn all over the house, I'm naked and have that smug 'just fucked' look plastered onto to my face and She Who Mustn't Find Out was only ten minutes away. 

"Amanda!"

She was dressed and out the door by the time I'd opened some windows and emptied the milk and bleach down the sink. As I hunted down my clothes I heard her pull away. Quick tidy round, put the telly on and I was sitting staring at the news - my cover story straight - as Jackie dumped her case in the hall.

"You left work early?" she said, by way of a 'hello darling, I love you'. "How come?"

Shit, she must have 'phoned. "I took the afternoon off to watch the cricket." She hated cricket, she'd have no idea that the last day was rained off.

"I see. I got the bleach and the milk. Do you want me to make a cup of tea?"

"Thanks," I nodded. If she'd arrived ten minutes earlier, she'd have been making the tea with the bleach and shoving it up my arse with a funnel.

She bangs around in the kitchen for a couple of minutes. I hear the fridge door open and close again. Then silence. Maybe she's wondering why the place stinks of bleach.

"James? Can you come here a minute?"

The bleach, surely. I can answer that one. I spilt it, that's why we needed some more. I was having a quick clean up before she got back. No, I didn't know she was coming back, did I? I was just cleaning up because it is important to keep things neat and tidy. Shut it! It doesn't matter why I was spilling bleach. I just was. Too much back story is a giveaway. 

Not bleach. Trouble. Big trouble. My stomach turned to water. I hoped she'd remembered the toilet roll.

"What are these?"

Not a question where you'd need to phone a friend. Anyone would know what they were. Amanda had forgotten her knickers. Amanda who hardly ever wore knickers had forgotten her knickers. But they were hers. I'd bought them. Forty five quid's worth of transparent wispiness was dangling from Jackie's outstretched and trembling hand.

What to say? Plan. Think quickly! Yes! Plans a), b) and c):

Plan a) They're mine. It was my dark secret. Will you help me to get cured of my perversion, my one and only true love? Nope, what there was of them was covered in cunt juice. I could hardly say I'd had the operation and would show her the scars in a few months when things had healed 'down there'. Mind you, if I'd been able to get them on in the first place I wouldn't have needed an operation. 

Plan b) I'd seen one of those ads in the papers and sent off for them for a laugh. Nope, they were covered with fresh cunt juice. Now, unless one of the big Pizza delivery chains had started a 'fresh dirty knickers to your door in 30 minutes or you get the next pair FREE', she wasn't going to buy that one. Plan c)…there was no plan c). Unless it was 'c' for 'Christ, I'm fucked here.'

"What are these?" She was shaking visibly now, failing to keep the tremor out of her voice. "Whose are they? Have you been…?"

They say time is a great healer. And lying about time can be pretty healing too. "It was only once!" I blurted out. What did she need to know about the other 599 times? "Just this afternoon. Honestly. I don't know what came over me! I was drunk..." 

Jackie shot me a look laced with poison. She didn't say anything, just stood and stared, thinking 'what does that lying bastard take me for?' I looked at my shoes, noticing I'd put odd ones on in my haste.

"Who was she? What was her name?"

Think of a name. NOT Amanda! Say anything but Amanda. I couldn't think of a single woman's name. "I don't know…"

"You. Don't. Know?" Each word she spat hit me between the eyes very, very hard.

That's it! Plan d)! Plan d)! "No, I don't know who she was. Not at all." The car. Excellent excuse! We'd arrived in Amanda's car, mine was still at the office. We were off to a meeting in Bristol first thing and her mileage allowance was much better than mine. Well she was the boss, after all. 

Jackie's eyebrows were arched to breaking point. But I was ready. The plan had formed. The story tumbled out:

"We decided, me and Mike" (shit, Mike was dead. Let's hope she didn't remember that detail. Wait, there was another Mike. Pretend it was him if she asks), "to watch the cricket in the pub. Finishes early in India, as you know, time difference and all that. Work was dead, so we slipped out at half eleven. Didn't mean to get pissed, but we were there all afternoon. That's why the car's not outside."

"Which Mike? Mike's dead."

"Not that Mike!" Funnily enough, the last time I remember Amanda wearing knickers was at Mike's funeral. She thought it was a nice way to show deference to the recently departed. Had someone died today that needed a similar mark of respect? I should have paid attention to the news.

"Mike, one of the photographers," I said. That was feasible. Our photographers are notorious piss-heads. Even Jackie knew that. "He kept getting them in. I didn't realise how much I'd drunk."

"Who was she?"

"At the bar. I got talking…she started talking to me at the bar. Asking me about the cricket. You know, who was who and why were they doing whatever it was they were doing. Got on my nerves a bit, to be honest."

Bit much that one. Plus, if anyone ever says 'to be honest' you know they are lying through their teeth.

"What was her name?"

"I didn't ask her. Why would I ask her? She bought us a couple of drinks. I bought her one back just to be…you know…sociable. She was a bit rough looking. I didn't fancy her at all."

Sneered at that one, did our Jackie. "But you took her back here and…and fucked her all the same? You pick up some slut in a seedy bar, take her to my house and fuck her?"

Jimmy, do not say 'our house'. This isn't the time or place for semantics. I liked the alliteration of 'some slut in a seedy bar' though, very good indeed. Will you just fucking concentrate! I thought. Deep breath. "It wasn't like that," I whined, like a little kid caught red-handed nicking Dinky toys from Woolies. Well, that's how I said it when they caught me at the age of ten. "Mike was far too pissed to drive me home, like he'd promised to do." Yeah, that's right. Blame imaginary Mike, the bastard! "She offered to drop me home, said it was on her way. I mean, I didn't know she wanted to screw me, did I? I just took the lift. You know how hard it is to get a taxi."

This time Jackie's left eyebrow almost disappears. "It was her fault? She took you back here to fuck you? Some slapper in a bar?"

Yes! Yes! It was all her fault! Imaginary slapper in a bar is to blame! Bang her up! Leading little innocent me on like that. The fact that I've been fucking the arse off my delicious boss for eight months has nothing to do with it at all. 

But all I said was: "It wasn't like that. It, it…it just happened. Look, I was pissed. It just happened. It's never happened before and it'll never happen again." 

Then inspiration struck. "Anyway, I read your email, I knew you were coming home." In my mind's eye I could see the little red icon on AOL declaring: 'You still have email, you lying little cunt'. Please God, let me get to it before she does. "Why would I have sex with someone if I knew you were coming home? It was a lapse, a horrible momentary lapse. It. Won't. Happen. Again. I promise"

We'd been married for eight years and she had never looked at me with anything approaching hate. But there it was now in those big brown, tear-filled eyes. 

"You fucking bastard!" she said as she pushed past me and ran up the stairs.

Jimmy, I thought, she's not wrong. Guilty as I felt I still managed to go into the study, boot up the computer and read her email. 'Fire, nervous breakdown, cancelled' it said. Switched off, had an: 'I don't smoke except in emergencies, and this is a fucking emergency' cigarette in the kitchen and waited for her to come back down.

That was Tuesday. The next time I saw her was last night when she came home and made me lick another man's spunk from her cunt. And then lick my spunk and his spunk from her, as well. 

If it hadn't been for Amanda none of this would have happened. Oh God, the pulchritudinous Amanda, a wonderful fuck and the dirtiest bitch I'd ever met. Amanda was how I got from there to here. But how did I get to Amanda?

To be continued...



The Cuckold Waltz Ch. 3



Amanda? Ah, Amanda! Where did that begin? A year and a bit ago I was in a job that didn't pay that well. But I enjoyed it. Tightly in charge of a monthly magazine, with a small band of dedicated contributors - who could actually write and also understood the meaning of the words 'copy deadline - I was a happy bunny.

Jackie, on the other hand, was rapidly climbing the corporate ladder and wasn't all that chuffed that I seemed happy enough grubbing about at the bottom of the publishing food chain (on our magazine we mixed metaphors all the time). She wanted me to have a job that reflected our - or, to be more accurate, her - high-flying status.

And so it came to pass that she returned from work one fine evening and announced that her new boss, the improbably named Barrington Leeke Thornton (referred to, apparently, by one and all as 'BLT') had a wife who was about to launch an up market glossy and was busy putting a team together. I felt the noose tightening.

At the interview, my potential employer cast hardly a glance at me. There was clearly a mutual admiration, though. She was extremely impressed with my bulging portfolio. For my part, I was extremely impressed with her tits. And they were clearly genuine - unlike my portfolio, which had been boosted by the inclusion of magazines listing me as 'contributing editor', when my only contribution had been to thumb listlessly through the finished product. Editor friends had been generous in giving me credit where none was due – as I'd been happy to do for them in the past. The moral of that story? Never trust a writer's CV.

A dead dyslexic dingo with a drink problem could have done my new job, for the simple reason I had nothing to do. I had, bizarrely, been earmarked as 'an ideas man', but at the daily editorial meetings any suggestion I made was met with a curt: "No, I don't think so," from my deliciously leggy and superior. I could have promised her an exclusive that would double the circulation and she would still have swatted it aside without pausing for breath.

In those meetings she never once looked at me and quite quickly I succumbed to the simple, if childish, pleasures of trying to look up her, usually short, skirt while grunting assent to some asinine suggestion from one of her favourites, about 'fly-fishing being the new rock and roll' or 'black being the new black'. Within a day or two I'd made sure that I sat in the seat most likely to afford me the least restricted view and the rewards for my voyeuristic endeavours were increasingly good.

Despite the warmth of early spring - the kind of days that promise a long balmy summer and then, in England, fail to deliver - she always wore stockings. By adopting an almost Quasimodo-like pose that was meant to mimic seriously intense concentration, I was occasionally treated to a thrilling accidental flash of knickers. The meetings blurred around me and the world was reduced to the space between the milky white thighs of my boss. If Doctor Samuel Johnson didn't say: 'When a man is tired of looking up a woman's skirt, he is tired of life', he certainly should have done.

By the second week the weather had returned to normal but still she arrived at work each day in a short, tight skirt, usually black, and a cleavage-hugging white blouse. There was a change in the way she sat at the table during the morning meetings. She was now almost side-on to me, so I no longer needed to look as if I had slipped a disc to get a view up her skirt. By midweek she'd hold the knicker-flashing pose for a minute or two and then slowly close her legs and smooth her skirt down. I couldn't be sure if she was doing it accidentally or deliberately, either to turn me on or to make a fool of me in front of everyone. I could imagine her leaping to her feet mid-meeting and denouncing me as a pervert and then having security frog-march me from the building after they'd tattooed the damning words: 'Sexual Harrasser' across my forehead.

In a week and a half she'd only said: "No, James, I don't think so" to me half a dozen times. No other words had she uttered and not once had she made eye contact. Perhaps I was invisible to her and she thought she was opening her legs to an empty chair. I just sat and said nothing; speaking no evil, hearing no evil and seeing a generous slice of silky knickers.

The Friday morning meetings, I was told, were always held on a Friday afternoon. No, I don't know why either. After a couple of pints and a bite to eat in a local, recently trendified bar the editorial staff braved the brutal wind that cut in from the north east and piled back to work. Telltale bumps on Amanda's skirt proved that, despite the cold, she was wearing the black stockings that I had come to depend on for my harmless kicks. 

First into the conference room as usual, I sprinted to my grandstand seat awaiting the show. The others sauntered in and took up their seats before Amanda breezed in and plonked herself down in her big leather swivel chair. Her legs were parted slightly. As my eyes wandered down her body, the thighs opened a little more and then stayed apart. When I managed to readjust my focus I realised that I was staring at bare cunt. Fucking hell, I thought, I've heard of dress down Friday but this is ridiculous! Her legs stayed slightly splayed as I feasted my eyes on her. She wasn't completely shaven, but sported only a hint of hair that was little more than a furry sticking plaster. I felt my mouth water and had to swallow hard. Dribbling down my shirt and tie wouldn't have looked all that smart. 

I was teetering on the edge of my seat, about to slide off, when I heard her say: "Any ideas, James?" After a pause, I heard myself - at first I thought it was someone impersonating me - say: "Knickers. How has the fact that more and more women have stopped wearing knickers affected the sales for people like M&S?" Nope, no idea at all why I said that.

There was a collective stiffening round the room at that. However, this was almost totally a stiffening of shoulders. I was the only one whose cock was stiff. Hearing my own words reverberate round the room, my head jerked back from the triangle between her legs. Perhaps no-one else knew what I could see but they all sensed I shouldn't have said it. 

There was a pause, one so pregnant the obstetrician would have advised that the baby be induced. Amanda sort of grunted. She fixed me with what I took to be a glare and: "Right, James, we'll talk about that after the meeting!"

Shit, I thought, less than a fortnight in the job and I'm out on my arse. Jackie's going to love that! I glanced around the smug faces gathered round the table, seeing them all think 'Ha! That's you fucked, Mr. So-Called Ideas Man!" At least I'd made the day for a few people. I was so pissed off at my impending sacking that I couldn't even bring myself to stare at my soon to be erstwhile boss's cunt. And besides, a quick glance down confirmed my suspicion that she had snapped her legs closed anyway. My guess was that she'd seen me looking when I mentioned knickers and the P45 would land on my desk at the same time as the sexual harassment suit.

So taken was I with thoughts of doom, gloom and the dole queue that I was only roused from my reverie by the sound of chairs scraping on the too-polished wooden floor. The rest of them filed out to do whatever it was they pretended to do on a Friday afternoon.

Amanda was looking at me, in what you could only describe as 'a funny way'.

She murmured in her dark and honeyed voice: "I see you were looking up my skirt, James."

"I can explain," I said, without the hint of an explanation in my head. "It was…" Silence.

"Did you like what you saw?"

Now, what kind of a trick fucking question was that? Was I going to be sacked for liking it, not liking it or having no opinion? "I…" Good, non-committal start, I thought and then I realised I had nowhere to take the 'I' somewhere. It dangled in the air between us like a noose on Viagra. "I…" I began again, just in case she'd forgotten the first 'I'.

She held up her hand. I, grateful for the chance to avoid adding a third eye, fell silent. I stared out the window and watched small grey clouds scud across bigger grey clouds. Bastard English summers, I thought glumly.

"Did you enjoy looking at my cunt, James?"

Jesus! Hang on a minute, that's not the kind of question I'd expected. I couldn't imagine her saying at the tribunal: "And when I asked the defendant if he liked looking at my cunt, he refused to answer." This was definitely going somewhere else. Maybe, just maybe, it was going somewhere very nice. Nod, James, I said to myself. Half a minute or so later my brain delivered the nod message.

She patted the table beside her. Even I realised she wanted me to sit next to her. I perched, nervously.

Then she smiled and I recognised the smile. It was friendly - and I'd really thought Amanda didn't 'do' friendly. She pushed her chair a little way back from the desk and the smile grew. "You've been staring at my knickers for a fortnight. I thought you deserved a treat." 

For some reason I thought about Every Good Boy Deserves something or other from schooldays. It was a way of remembering some science thing, or a music thing, or some 'thing'. Buggered if I could remember it. Next thing, I couldn't have remembered my own name. Amanda had allowed the skirt to slide up her thighs – and, let's face it, it didn't have a lot of sliding to do. Her legs parted slowly and the close-cropped cunt was deliciously exposed to my view once more. Only this time it was inches from my face.


"Does my cunt look nice, James?"

Half-minute delayed nod from me.

To the side of the thin strip of hair was a tattoo. A flower of some sort, don't ask me what. I was too busy with the realisation that not only could I see her, I could smell her. She noticed me inhale, even though I tried to hide the fact. 

"Does my cunt smell nice, James?"

Another satellite delayed nod.

"Do you think my cunt would taste nice, James?"

No delay this time.

She spread her legs still further, raised her forefinger to the level of her tits and then let it point downwards. She smiled. "Well, lick my cunt, you dirty bastard."

Well, what was I supposed to do? A man has to do what a man has to do when it comes to keeping the boss happy. With a heavy heart (all right, even I don't believe that) I dropped to my knees and buried my face between her thighs.

I should have registered the fact that the door could open at any moment and a horrified member of staff might wander blithely in, but I was too busy pushing my tongue into her and sliding a finger in as well. She moaned a little then, so I decided the introduction of a finger into her arse might not go amiss. As the finger slipped in, she pushed hard against me. I got the impression that she was fairly satisfied with my work. Maybe a pay rise wasn't out of the question.

I was drowning in cunt by now. I slid another finger in as my tongue flicked against her clit. The two fingers sought out her G-spot as my tongue found its rhythm. My cock was crushed against the belt of my trousers and my knees were being rubbed raw. I wasn't sure how long I could keep it up. Amazingly, though, after only a couple more minutes Amanda gave out a strangled groan and came over my face. A moment's elation gave way to the realisation that the reason she had come so quickly was the thought that someone could come into the office at any moment rather than my expertise at licking cunt.

After her orgasm she sighed and smoothed down her skirt. She smiled and rose from the chair. I noticed that the leather was slick with her juice. I thought that was it for the day, but she bent over the table, did the short hitching of the skirt and presented her delectable arse to me. 

"Now I need some cock," she said over her shoulder.

"What if someone comes in?" I whimpered. "Won't we get into trouble?"

She snorted at that. "James, I'm the fucking boss. If anyone walks in, I'll sack them. Now, get it up me at once!"

I like to oblige. I'd like to say that I fucked her for hours until she had to be carried out on a stretcher with her legs set in splints to prevent further chaffing, but I can't. I lasted no more than three of fours minutes. I don't feel bad about that; you haven't seen her arse.

When I came so quickly she shrugged off the disappointment. "First night nerves, eh?" she asked with an eyebrow raised somewhere between patronising and sympathetic.

I gestured at the door. "You know," I said, hoping that would be enough.

"Huh!" she said, which could have meant anything, and opened her briefcase and sought out a tissue. Almost business-like, she pulled one out and dabbed mechanically between her thighs. "Better get rid of the worst of it," she smiled. Then she tossed the spunk-laden tissue into a wastepaper basket across the room. It landed straight in the middle. She laughed.

Her pulled her skirt up again. "Much cum left?"

There was a small trail down her left thigh. "A Bit," I said. I didn't know how much was 'much'.

"Right!" She said. "Off you go! Write the knickers story. I might even use it. Oh, and James…next time you fuck me make it last a bit longer, will you?"

And I did. And I was as happy as I ever had been. I had my beloved Jackie at home and I had the insatiable Amanda at work (and in the car, and the toilets at the bar, and the park, and in country hotels, and town hotels and almost anywhere it was physically possible). And then there was what I now term a 'development'.

It was a Thursday, almost midnight. Jackie was home that evening, entertaining some arseholes from work. Clients, perhaps, I'm not sure. I thought they were all wankers anyway. I had spent the evening with Amanda. We'd driven out to a drab dormitory town where Amanda, short-skirted and sans underwear, wanted to indulge her exhibitionist nature. We'd fucked about three times and she went home dripping with spunk. I went home sore and exhausted, having taken her exhortation to 'last longer next time' to heart.

Jackie was in the bathroom cleaning her teeth. She was feeling horny and I knew I'd have to perform when I went up. Just as I was wondering if I could rise to the occasion, the phone rang. It was Amanda. I knew something was wrong. She was under strict instructions never to phone at home. Now, although Amanda isn't the type of woman you can give instructions to unless she wants you to tell her what to do, she isn't reckless enough to phone when the wife is at home.

"What's wrong?" I asked, panic levels shooting through the roof. 

She purred. "Nothing wrong, darling. Nothing wrong at all. Something lovely, actually, something really lovely…and really filthy."

Jesus, Amanda, I thought. This isn't the time for telling me filthy things, not when the wife could lean over the banister at any moment demanding to know 'who's on the phone at this time of night'.

"What is it?" I asked through gritted teeth. She might have been my boss, not to mention a dirty bitch, but there's a time and a place and this was neither.

Ignoring the tension in my voice she said: "Well, when I got home, cum running down my thighs and my skirt up around my arse, guess who was home?"

Jesus! BLT was meant to be at a conference; the excrement and cooling appliance had definitely collided. But she sounded so casual, so unconcerned. I knew she was a bit mental, but this time she'd clearly lost the plot entirely.

"And?"

"And, as I was bending over in front of the fridge for the lemon, he came up behind me and put his hands between my thighs. I didn't even know he was back…it could have been a burglar for all I knew…"

"And?" I was shitting myself now.

"And…and he said that I was obviously very horny tonight, and was I after some 'satisfaction'? I thought, well, why not? We hardly ever fuck now my little James has learned how to do it properly."

"Amanda, is this going to turn out badly?" I asked, gripping the telephone table in an effort to still the shaking.

"Listen!"

Don't ask me why but I just nodded. I still haven't really got used to the idea that people on the phone can't actually see you.

"I said yes, I was feeling very horny and fancied a nice bit of cock. I was still bending over the fridge when I heard him unzip his trousers. Of course, I was so open that I hardly felt his prick slide up me at all. He pumped away for a while and filled me with his cum. Now, was that the fourth or fifth helping of the evening, James? I've really lost count"

"So he didn't say anything?" I wasn't gripping so hard, so perhaps I was calming down. I heard Jackie emerge from the bathroom and pad across the landing to our bedroom – well, it was our bedroom then and stayed that way until she found the cunt-stained knickers in the kitchen the other night. I really had to go.

"Amanda, I really have to go."

"Wait until I finish!" She said, as she'd said so many times before. "Anyway, where was I? Ah yes, there I was full of your spunk and full of his. I like this, I thought. He went off to bed and I followed him. I thought to myself, do you know, Amanda, what I'd really like now is to have my dirty cunt licked out. I got into the bedroom while he was still awake…now, there's a first… and straddled his face. Like the obedient boy he is, he began licking me out…I do love that expression, so base, so working class…I came all over his fat little face within seconds. It was just the thought that your spunk was mixed in with his. It drove me wild.

"And then I just had to do it. I slid down him and kissed him on the lips. I could taste you! It was wonderful. He had a mouthful of your spunk and he didn't even know it! You and him mixed together. Hmmm! Delicious! I may even go up and fuck him again, just to taste you on him…Bye!"

It's another question that I can't answer, but, after she hung up, I was up the stairs and up Jackie within about forty seconds. If you asked me where the trouble started, I'd have to say it was that moment.

To be continued..