The morning after the night before I was watching Flick fold washing on the blanket box at the foot of our bed. She was wearing a red vest and a pair of old grey knickers which though careworn and threadbare cupped her most beautifully. Drowsy with hangover and sat on the window sofa, I was enjoying the play of creases around the junction of her hips and torso and the way her breasts moved under the red cotton when she suddenly laughed and stood up, half turning. She touched herself, and looking at her fingers said delightedly:
“I’ve got Mark’s come running down my legs!”
My face must have been a picture because she turned full towards me, and laughed again.
“You didn’t know -?”
I racked my befuddled brain for evidence. We’d been at a big office party the night before, in one of those tall glass and steel and polished wood sort of places on the river. Neither of us worked there, but it was a friends of friends and parents of children, schoolyard etc kind of deal, thrown by the company as a community thing. It was, I suppose, an adult school disco, and the whole schoolgate crowd was there. This crowd had of course included Mark and Rebecca, the couple who’d shown us the way of the slap. Did I remember Mark and Felicity together? Perhaps. Perhaps I was looking down Rebecca’s top at the time.
Flick was standing in front of me, legs apart, fists on sweet hips, the gusset of her old grey knickers dark with wet and her nipples standing through the vest in the way that hints at inner heat rather than outer cold. She was looking at me seriously and, although she was clearly concerned, her breath was coming faster and there was a flush in her cheeks.
“Darling,” she was saying, “you seriously don’t remember? Oh God, um well.. We were chatting by the bar, and he, um, Mark? He offered to show me the executive suite? You know.. boardroom and such? And you patted Rebecca’s bottom and said something about me taking dictation and had a big swig of fizz…”
That was when I’d looked down her top, I bet. Well. Here was a fine collection of mingled emotions. That sort of nonsense sounded exactly like me plus too much booze. I cringed. I’d better phone Rebecca later and apologise. And then there was Flick. Half-naked Flick, who was I now realised fairly stinking of sex, and telling me about fucking Mark. As fine a mingling of chagrin and cuckoldry as ever stirred a mans vitals. And mine were stirring, they were stirring indeed.
“Shit.” Said Felicity “Now I’m embarrassed..” and she turned away and bent again by the blanket box to pick up clean knicks. And I stood and stepped forward and fetched her a long, mighty slap to her bending right hip. She stumbled forward against the box and the bedboard, eyes wide and shocked and I stepped close up alongside her and, forcing her head down among her disordered smalls I took a great handful of hair and tore down her grey pants. They were sticky as she was, wet and hot, and I thoroughly paddled her while she whimpered and swore and wriggled under my palm. She was turned sideways, uncomfortable, straining and as I looked down and thrashed her, I could just see the half-smile of her sticky pink slot, the trails of Mark’s come trickling down her taut thighs.
“So tell me about it,” I demanded and swung, and between little gasps and hard, tiny yelps, that’s what she did.
“He took me upstairs in the big fancy lift.
Not all the way.
Fourth and Fifth –
He looked at me fierce –
So I showed him my pants -”
I could see it now, the dark wood and tile and the mirrors, she’d have lifted the shirt dress. A velvet confection, aping something more casual, with pearls for buttons and, if you looked hard enough, magical creatures in the nap of the cloth.
She’d worn bright red knickers that night. I’d made her do it, because the dress was just short enough that they would show briefly if she bent down or opened her legs on a couch. Bright glossy satin.
I could see it now. The tableau. The raised dress and the flash of red. His gaze and hers, crackling with challenge.
He stopped the lift-”
And even in her confined and pinned state she moved her hands, demonstrating his single quick sweep of the torn open doors.
“And then he came over-
And he propped it up on the panel-
And said –
Take down your knickers-
And he undid his belt-
You can watch-
If you like-”
And she pointed across the room at her clutch bag where it lay by the bookcase.
I had her tight up against the bed and the blanket box, her face shoved down into a pile of her knickers, blue lace under her open mouth, wet with tears and saliva. My cock was as hard as glass and hot and ready, pressing through my boxers against her pretty red arse. I looked down at her and hit her again. Rocked my curved rigid self along the curve of spanked bottom, watched the white handprint fade into the red, watched her slicked-up cunt leaking slowly down her shaking legs. I should have fucked her then, but she tricked me.
“There’s video. On my phone.”
It was too much to resist. So I slapped her again and went to her bag, heard her rustle away, heard her escape from her little uncomfortable prison. Heard her open the bedside cabinet. But I didn’t look round because I had her phone. She’d locked it of course, but the lock screen, instead of some autumn leaves, or a church or a fucking dolphin or whatever was new. It was a close up vid-grab of her spreadeagled legs, bare-cunted on a black and white tile floor. I felt myself tighten. A vice that squeezed from the back of my balls up through gut and heart, round my throat and my skull. I swear my heart stopped in that fizzing moment, and I felt myself spurt, just a little, into my shorts.
I turned back to her as she rose from the bedside cupboard. She’d removed her red vest and the contrast of rosy-pink bum and her long pale back was exquisite. She turned and in her upraised right hand was the long curve of glass dildo, a false crystal cock with spirals of blue. She looked at me. A frank, weighty gaze. And slowly, deliberately put it into her mouth and with her left hand stirred at her lightly-furred cunt. Then she tried to sit down. Jumped and yelped like a scalded cat.
“You fucking cunt.” She snarled. “No way you’re fucking me now.” And wincing she knelt, and watching me all the while slid every glass inch of that pretty bright cock into her insatiable hole. In. And out. Long slow strokes. She spoke again.
Of course it was. Half watching, I opened the thing.
The video was right there as soon as I opened it up. The interior of an executive lift, tile floor that I recognised, and polished wood panels and a handrail against which was Flick, frozen in the act of slipping a hand down red knickers and right up close and personal, Mark’s patrician face, long and ebony, slightly out of focus, serious as he set up the phone. Flick’s face was obscured by a bright white triangle which I immediately pressed.
There were some unsteady wobbles and then Mark was walking away, hands in front of him. The ends of his belt flapped and his trousers bunched and Flick’s eyes dropped down and her mouth parted and smiled and forgetting her own eager crux she sank straight to her knees and reached for him. Mark pulled her around a little and, taking her hair tilted her face up to the camera. Presented her mouth reaching for his cock. She was lunging forward hungrily, but he teased her – and I – by not letting her reach him, not fully. He rubbed that glorious thing, a tusk of deep glossy brown, headed in deep pink and lavender, over her cheeks and her nose. It dwarfed anything I have and, just before he allowed her to take it, it lay right across her face, alongside her nose. With his slick black balls in her mouth, the head of it lay pink and glistening on her white forehead.
And then, well. He let her have it, and made sure of the camera and Felicity was slowly, reverently, taking him into her mouth. It took her several attempts, and it made her eyes water, and her mouth stretch and at the end made her gag. But she did it and as she did it, and her drool spilled down her chin and over his tight glistening balls, she found the camera. And for what felt like a lifetime without breath or heartbeat she bobbed her head and her eyes watered and her mascara ran but she kept that eye contact and again I felt myself pulse. All without touching my cock twitched and I felt tiny trickles of come leaking out.
I haven’t mentioned the sound. Echoed now by the slut on my bed, the sound from the phone was all guttural grunts and wet slurping slaps, the rustle of cloth and small whimpers of urgency. In the real, on our bed, Felicity spoke, voice slightly muffled by pillows and strained by her desperate need.
“Take it out. Take it out. Touch it. I want to see it.”
And I did so, I stripped off my now sticky shorts and my bed-smelly T and stood naked before her, before her on her knees. She had angled the dildo sharply downhill and I could tell by her snarls and whimpers that she was reaching the end. The glass shaft slid in and out faster and faster and she started to twitch, while from the forgotten phone came a sudden cry.
In the lift, they were now both upright and Mark’s frantic hands plucked at the pearl-buttoned dress, while Flick chewed at his ear and tugged at the cock, the thick dark strip of it stark against her white thigh. and soon the dress parted as high as Flick’s waist and Mark lifted her bodily, hitching her up to the rail and Flick, taking her weight on the handrail with iron tight wrists, lifted her ankles to rest on his hips. Now neither performer kept track of the camera, but though it was hidden by her clenching thighs I could see the moment he connected in the rolled white of her eyes. The two seemed to wrestle, and almost to fight. She was clutching him hard in the vice of her hips, his hands in her hair, his teeth on her lips. And just as before it took work and effort and they struggled on until she was spread enough, wet enough to take him all in. On the phone their mingled voices drew out to a moan and here on the bed Flick drove the glass thing finally home.
And what happened next feels more like a dream, because in both realities Flick started to scream. To yell and to moan imprecations, the filthiest things, the dirtiest notions and she twitched and she strangled around both thrust cocks and while lift-Flick continued to enjoy her fuck, the real Flick, my dear Flick? She started to suck.
While I watched her thrashing on Mark’s fine big prick she’d turned on the bed and given me a long lick. And into her mouth she drew my trembling, quivering length and my head swam with the richness of our mingled musk. Mark lifted his head back and came with a roar, filling my wife, then let her slide to the floor, and the last frame of the film was Mark buttoning his flies, and my sprawled fresh-fucked wife looking me straight in the eyes.
I don’t think I’ve come like it, honestly told. The overwhelming sensations. Her mouth rammed down to the root of my prick, the feel of her teeth, the pulse of her tongue and my cockhead pressing into the tunnel of throat. That sweet tightness,the pressure deep behind my balls, that grip climbed slowly up my shaft, up my body. It filled me with ripples of light. And I swear to you, I felt as if I was a raincloud, all dark and turbulent, looking down on a long narrow lake. The lake was a bright, hot blue – the colour of the sky around me. And I could hear and feel and taste that colour and then I, the turbulent cloud, gave way and filled the world, the sky with lightning and hot rain. I took a decent chunk out of my eyebrow as I fell out of the heavens. Struck it on the bedpost as I came back to earth, thighs, knees,calves all like water. And I remember Felicity,my sweet come-soaked Flick, laughing with joy, and care, and amusement as she stopped the bleeding and patched me up.