It’s a pity you’re not going to be in Kuala Lumpur next week.

~I know. All that heat and humidity … it’s bound to be conducive to all manner of sensual thoughts. And pleasures.

Warmer weather does tend to get the mind flowing. Amongst other things.

~Yes. I’d hoped to have the opportunity to get things flowing in person.

The drinks, perhaps?

~Naturally. Something served in a tall glass, with lots of ice and a slice of lemon, and rivulets of condensation beading the outside.

Why is it you even make a beverage sound erotic?

~A naturally filthy mind?

Could be. My mind automatically switches to filthy mode whenever we speak.

~I’m obviously a bad influence on you.

You are … long may that continue.

~I’m flattered.

You should be. When will you be up here again?

~I don’t know. Soon, I hope.

You’ll be booking into a hotel?

~Most probably.

Stop teasing me!

~Me? Teasing? As if.

You know full well that you are. Be careful: I can tease with the best of them. Still, you’ve managed to tease me for quite a while now, haven’t you? And quite often with your words alone….

~Just think how I could tease you with my words and my hands.

Oh, I often do think … and not just of you using your hands.

~You’ll make me blush. Are your musings about hands and Other Things pleasurable?

Most deliciously pleasurable.

~I find the thought of that more than a little exciting.

My musings?

~You taking pleasure from them.

It’s the same for me. You know the faint stirring … the realisation that my nipples are very hard.

~You have such fabulous nipples … but especially when they’re roused.

Mmmm … I’ve just brushed one with my fingertip.

~You did warn me that you can give as good as you get.

I can feel it hard beneath my clothes.

~I want that … to cup your breasts through your clothes and feel your nipples becoming taut beneath the cotton and the lace, to feel them seeking out the centres of my palms, daring me to undress you and reveal them in their glory.

Fuck. Really? I’m smiling because I think the centres of your palms will be like magnets.

~Now I’m growing hard at the thought of brushing my thumbs across the crowns of your nipples once I’ve removed your blouse and your bra … no, I think I’ll leave your bra on for a while, so that I can tease your nipples through the lace cups … and then once you’ve begun to shiver with desire, I’ll draw the edges of the cups down, baring your magnificent breasts and those taut nipples that I’ve fantasised about for so long – finally naked so that I can press my lips against them in turn, gently suckling upon them, flickering my tongue against their peaks, painting them in slow, damp circles.

If I were looking at you now … would I see the outline of your beautiful cock through your trousers?

~Yes, Madame would be able to make out the outline of my cock without any difficulty.

Have you ANY idea how horny that is? The thought of your cock restrained by clothing is incredibly arousing.

~You’d like to touch me through my clothes? To run a fingertip – or perhaps just the tip of a fingernail – along my length and make me shudder? To cup me and feel me straining against your grasp? Taking your time, enjoying each moment before you reach for the zip and draw it down with a slow, inevitable crackle.

Oh, yes … God I really want to cup you, to stroke your length. And as I unzip you, I’ll sink to my knees.

~Why do you want to be on your knees when you unzip me? Tell me.

So that my lips and mouth will be close enough to taste you … once you’ve been teased enough to make your tip glisten.

~Like it is now?

Fuck, yes. Are you undressed?

~Sort of. My trousers appear to have … loosened themselves a little.

Amazing how that happens, isn’t it?

~Isn’t it.

And does your hand suddenly have a mind of its own? Mine does….

~What’s yours doing?

You mean you don’t know?

~No, I mean that I want you to have to tell me.

My very delicate, lady-like hand seems intent on discovering why I’m so very wet, and hard, and very, very sensitive.

~And have you formed any theories on why all those things might be?

Because the thought of your hot breath on my nipples and your hard cock pressing against me has got me incredibly aroused.

~And what does the thought of feeling my hot breath against the lips of your cunt do to you? Through the flimsy fabric of your panties, so that you can feel the warm rush of air, but muted, slightly dulled by the material … so that there is a charge of excitement when I slowly draw your panties to one side, unveiling you for the first time … so that you can look down the length of your body and see my narrowed, voracious eyes drinking in the beauty of your naked sex.

Quite frankly, it makes me want to orgasm. Right here, right now. Like a wanton hussy.

~Then why don’t you do just that? I adore wanton hussies.

I know you do. And that makes me all the more wanton.

~Unleash the wanton slut inside you. Let her free.

You know, I shaved myself quite a few days ago, so now I’ve got the lightest covering … it’s so sensual to the touch.

~I want to rub the side of my face against your mound, to feel that light covering tickling my skin, all the while breathing in the scent of your arousal, your lust … perhaps just running the very tips of my fingers over your labia, along the insides of your thighs, down between the cheeks of your arse….

You’re touching ALL my buttons now, Sir. I may have to come.

~So apt a turn of phrase – you’ve no idea how long I’ve lusted for the chance to explore your clitoris with my fingers and my lips and my tongue, and the smooth head of my cock. I want to find out how much pleasure you can take.

Fuck … so do I. How much pleasure can you take?

~I don’t know. I’ve never had a lover who’s tried to chart my limits.

Or plumbed your depths?

~(laughing) So to speak.

You can plumb my depths, if you like.

~Yes please. To slip a pillow under your arse, lift your legs so that your calves rest against my shoulders, and then hold you about your waist as I ease my cock inside your cunt … taking my time to begin with, long, slow strokes, so that I can appreciate the view … the high colour in your face, your breasts bouncing gently each time I enter you, the sight of my cock cleaving your sex and disappearing inside you … then slipping my hands beneath your arse as I begin to thrust in earnest, squeezing your flesh softly at first, then more firmly as my own lust begins to take over, my nails dragging across your skin, setting your nerve endings alight.

Christ. Fuck. Sorry, I was imagining your Lust taking over … feeling your cock thrust into me.

~And how did it feel?

Incredible. The sensation of your nails on my skin … the sound of your voice as you approach climax … thrusting harder and faster as your desire takes over.

~The tautening of my cock inside you, just before it begins to throb and pulse within your velvet cunt?

Yes, that exquisite moment before you erupt … when we both know pure pleasure.

~And if I take your hand just before I begin to come, press your fingers against the base of my shaft so that you can feel it pulsing as it pumps my come deep inside you, so that you can feel my balls quivering at your touch, feel them literally emptying themselves into you?

I would adore that. You know I will need to come very soon?

~I want you to come.

Now?

~Yes, now.

Your words and my fingers….

~Your fingers pressing into your cunt after I’ve come, your flesh warm and soft and slick with my seed, using me to lubricate your touch as you bring yourself to a final shuddering climax as I lie beside you and watch & listen to you.

Oh my God! Sir, you truly are a miracle worker.

~What makes you say that?

Because you press all the buttons, of which I have many and various!

~You’ve no idea how badly I want to press them in person….

The warm breeze teasing and playing with her hair, Stephanie thinks of the numbers that she could dial right now. In the end, her choice is a simple one. The obvious one, really. She punches out his number with an expensively manicured finger.

“Hello?” he says after the third ring of his business line.

“Try and guess where I am right now.”

“Stephanie.” He says her name with evident pleasure. “You’re outdoors, from the sound of the wind against the mouthpiece.”

“Outdoors covers around ninety-nine percent of the planet’s landmass. See if you can manage to be a little more specific.”

“Only ninety-nine percent of the world to choose from? I don’t think the odds favour me.”

She smiles. “I’ll give you a clue. All that I’m wearing is a pair of shoes.”

There’s a pause that only broadens her smile. “Outdoors and naked? Well, assuming that you’re not about to be arrested for streaking along the boulevard, I guess that you’re making the most of the sun while lying by the side of your swimming pool.”

“Close. Think a little higher, though.”

“You’re sunbathing on your balcony?”

She laughs coquettishly. “Higher.”

“You’re on the roof?” There’s a note of wonderment in his words. She likes that, likes being a source of surprise for the people with whom she chooses to share herself.

“Eureka.”

“If memory serves, your roof-top’s wide open. Every Peeping Tom with a telescope or a long-lens camera is going to be looking your way before long, if they aren’t already.”

“You think so?” She’s already considered the possibility, but hearing him say it aloud sends her a warm, liquid rush through the core of her naked body. It’s warm in the late afternoon sun, yet her skin instantly prickles into gooseflesh at the thought of being the focal point for a dozen or more unseen voyeurs, each of them seething with the desire to touch her, to taste her, to fuck her. Her nipples, already fully taut, seem to tighten a fraction.

Now it’s his turn to laugh. “I think that you might be insane.”

Her smile fades; partly because of his failure to insinuate himself into her train of thought, and partly because of his turn of phrase, even though she knows the comment is almost certainly meant in jest.

“I like to think of myself as being uninhibited,” she says. Even she can hear the chill in her words.

“Uninhibited?” He laughs again, either ignorant or blustering. “Oh, you’re definitely that.”

She doesn’t respond, just listening to the sound of his breathing across the miles of air and copper, already feeling regret that she selected his number. She wonders if he’s capable of retrieving the wonderful cloak of sensuality she’d first experienced as she stood at the white-painted railing surrounding the edge of her building’s roof and slipped the ivory silk robe from her naked shoulders, allowing it to fall the length of her body and pool at her feet.

Eventually, he breaks the leaden silence. “I’ve annoyed you.”

“A little.”

“More than a little.”

She says nothing, waiting for his next move. The low throb of desire still courses through her body, but now it is becoming a source of frustration; a maddening itch that she fears will soon pass beyond her meagre ability to sooth and banish.

The lyrics of a song rise unbidden from her memory:

Don’t want your bullshit, yeah
Just want your sexuality
Don’t want excuses, yeah
Write me your poetry in motion
Write it just for me, yeah
And sign it with a kiss

“What do you want from me, Stephanie? Why did you call?”

Still she says nothing, allowing the silence to push the knife a little deeper into him, to turn it slowly.

“I can’t come to you now,” he says. “I’m up to my neck here, and … I’ve got a dinner party to go to as soon as I leave here.”

The brief pause catches her attention like a clanging bell. He’d said I’ve after he’d paused momentarily, but what he should have said – what he’d almost said – was we’ve.

It doesn’t bother her, the presence of his wife, hanging like a spectre in his background. She’s known about the commitment from the beginning. What she cares about is that when he’s with her, when he’s thinking about her, there’s no room for anyone else in his thoughts. She doesn’t expect any more than that, but she will not settle for any less.

“I’m sorry for disturbing you,” she says.

“You haven’t. Look-”

“I should go,” she says. “I just saw something glinting in a window across the street. Perhaps one of your Peeping Toms has more time for me.”

“Stephanie-”

She terminates the call. After a couple of seconds, she switches the phone off as well.

All the things you could have asked, she thinks despondently, bitterly. You could have listened as I pleasured myself, as I orgasmed, as I came saying your name. You could have asked me to photograph myself naked on my rooftop and send the photos to you. You could have asked me to switch on the video camera so you could watch, live. And all that time, whatever you asked of me, you could have stroked your hard flesh, brought yourself to a shuddering climax, shared the experience with me.

And yet instead…

She looks at the impotent handset with disdain before she places it down on top of her robe. She leans forward, her forearms resting upon the white railing. Twenty stories down, the rest of the world scurries back and forth, walking, running, cycling, driving, each person entirely oblivious to her presence, to her need.

The fever that gripped her, that propelled her to this roof top vantage, is passing, slipping out of her. As it does, common sense flows back into her, reclaiming the vacuum left by her unrequited lust. Time to put her robe back on and leave.

As she stoops to retrieve the silky gown, a glint of brilliance from a top floor window in the apartment block opposite catches her eye. She hesitates. Whatever the source might be, it glints again as she watches, a sparkling diamond against the darkness of the room behind.

Heartbeat quickening, Stephanie lets the robe slip from her fingers once more. She stands up straight, places her palms against the top of the railing, and leans forward slightly to deepen the vee of her cleavage. And as the warm, liquid rush floods her core, she smiles with wanton satisfaction at whoever might be watching her from across the void.

“You really shouldn’t be here,” she gasps, her mouth tingling, her lips still deliciously bruised by the maleness of his kiss. Even as she says the words, though, he is pressing her back against the bed – her marriage bed – the iron bedstead creaking treacherously beneath their combined weight.

“Lie there,” he says to her, he commands her.

She watches with a fusion of lust and panic as he steps back and begins to undress, dropping his clothes unconcernedly onto the bedroom floor. Soon, he is completely naked. He stands before her, confident, arrogant. She can’t stop herself from sweeping her eyes over the lightly tanned skin, the lean musculature, the mat of hair adorning his chest and his abdomen … the thick cock, already rising towards her gaze from its nestling place between his thighs.

She can scarcely believe that he is here, in her bedroom, inside the sanctity of her home. It was the one place where he couldn’t overwhelm and consume her, where she could find some sliver of respite from the power he exerted over her, from the burning desire he inspired in her.

Now her last sanctuary is gone too. Part of her is terrified by that thought, and yet part of her is equally thrilled.

Her lover climbs back on the bed, straddling her legs; the beast about to pounce and devour and satiate. She’d not long arrived back from work when the front door bell rang, so she is still wearing her office attire: white blouse, black skirt, demure white lingerie. He pushes the hem of her skirt up her thighs until he has bared her lacy bands of her stocking tops and the creamy flesh that lies beyond them. He smiles; the smile of the libertine, the predator. It’s a smile that makes her shudder wantonly.

His hands track upwards, his knowing palms smoothing across her trembling belly and onto her breasts. He cups her through her blouse, gently, almost affectionately. She sighs contentedly as her muscles relax, uncoiling, her core becoming liquid and warm.

He begins unbuttoning the blouse, taking his time, his eyes never leaving hers. She knows that she should find some way to stop him, and at the same time, she knows that she can’t.

I can’t. I don’t want to.

He opens her blouse wide, immediately scooping it over her shoulders and drawing it down her arms. His smile deepens, becoming a fraction more lecherous. In response, she glances down the line of her body.

She hadn’t realised just how diaphanous the cups of her brassiere were when she’d dressed that morning. Like most mornings, she’d been chasing the clock, trying to claw back vital minutes she’d already lost. She’d simply reached into the drawer that held all of her white lingerie and pulled out the first set of brassiere and panties that came to hand. Now, her hardening nipples are clearly visible through the lace cups. Her lover licks the edge of his mouth as his smouldering eyes scorch her body. Absently, she wonders how much her co-workers saw earlier. Instead of being mortified, she finds herself excited by the prospect of the other men in the office being aroused by ephemeral glimpses of her breasts.

He reaches out, hooking his fingers into the tops of the bra’s cups. Slowly, he draws the fabric down, until it rests concertinaed beneath her bosom.

His palms are warm against her bare breasts, firm and yet soft. She feels strength restrained. She tries to lift herself, to press herself into his grasp, as though to spear his hands with nipples that throb they are so taut, so unyielding. He squeezes again, harder this time, making her nipples stand prouder still as he shares his strength, moulding her yielding flesh to his grasp.

She sighs.

“You know that I’m going to fuck you now, don’t you?” he says. “I’m going to take you. Right here on this bed that you share with him.”

“No,” she whimpers. “You mustn’t. You can’t.” Her words carry some truth.

“Stop me then.”

His hands slip downwards, leaving her breasts mourning their tactile loss. He runs his palms down her flanks and onto her thighs. His palms become fingertips, drawing four parallel lines down the outside of her legs, past her knees and onto her calves. His touch hisses as it skims the nylon of her stockings, the electric sound sending a ripple of anticipation coursing down her spine. The bedroom is warm from the afternoon sun, yet her skin erupts into gooseflesh at the subtlety of his touch.

She closes her eyes and bites down on her bottom lip so as not to betray her pleasure.

Reaching behind himself, he grasps her ankles and draws them up the bed, forcing her to bend at the knees and the hips, until she is open and exposed to him. He rests his hands atop the insides of her knees, holding her in that position. The bedstead creaks again as he raises himself slightly, and then she feels something hard pressing against the plumpness of her sex through the scantiness of her panties. She gasps as she realises that it is his cock. The realisation makes her throb, makes the wetness within her blossom, and then he begins to thrust, slowly, the underside of his shaft pressing into her cleft through the cotton and lace, gliding back and forth against her, making her nerve-endings fire like tiny fireworks, a never-ending deluge of pleasure that grows as she becomes wetter and plumper and his shaft presses more deeply into her. As he extends his thrusts, his glans rides across the tingling nub of her clitoris, and the explosions of the fireworks grow, the noise of their explosions beginning to boom softly.

Now she can’t stop herself from groaning her pleasure aloud. Now she can’t stop herself. If she heard her husband’s key in the front door at this moment, she thinks that she might die … not from the fear of being caught in flagrante, but from the prospect of being denied having her lover’s hard, thick cock all the way inside her.

“Fuck me,” she says to him in a low voice.

“But you told me that I mustn’t, that I can’t.”

His tone is contrary, but she has lost the wherewithal to fence words with him. All that matters is the growing need inside her, the need to be filled, to feel complete.

Her eyes find his once more. “Take me,” she says softly, her voice and her gaze overflowing with longing.

His mouth curls upwards triumphantly. She knows that he would have taken her even without her surrender … but now his victory will be all the sweeter, knowing that she is his, that she is giving herself to him unconditionally, and in doing so, betraying her husband in this most sacrosanct of places, the space where she is meant to belong to him and him alone.

Now, even her guilt excites her. It flavours her desire in a way she’d never dreamed it could.

Her lover reaches down and hooks his fingers into the side of her panties. With deliberation, he draws the damp cotton aside, finally baring her. She trembles at the sensation of air against her molten sex, at the sound of his grunt of approval and hunger.

And then at last – At last! – she feels his naked flesh on hers. She cries out, so close to orgasm already and he’s not even been inside her. She closes her eyes so she can concentrate on the sensations of touch. His shaft glides though her cleft, lubricated by her lust. He pauses as his cockhead nestles at the entrance to her cunt, and then he is pushing forwards, easing inside her, and she is gasping, crying out as her most intimate flesh gives way before him, sheathing him, embracing him.

“Oh, yes!” she cries out, her head pressing back against the bed as she presses her loins to meet his. Now he is all the way inside her, his laden balls hanging against the cheeks of her arse.

“You love the feeling of my cock filling you, don’t you?”

She nods, made mute by a wave of guilt at what she has done, at what she is doing.

“Say it,” he says.

She swallows. “I love it.”

He brushes the pad of his thumb across her clitoris and the explosion of sensation is exquisite and bewildering. “Oh fuck!” she whispers. “Oh fuck!”

His thumb withdraws. “Say it all,” he tells her, his voice firmer now.

“I love it,” she says again, and he brushes his thumb across her clit once more. “I fucking love the feeling of your big cock inside me, all the way, filling my cunt.” ‘Cunt’ is a word she never used before she met him. It had always felt dirty in her head, let alone in her mouth. He set out to change her from the beginning. He told her that he found vagina too medicinal for his tastes, pussy too whimsical, fanny too juvenile. “Cunt is honest,” he’d told her. “It doesn’t hide anything, and it doesn’t pretend to be something that it isn’t.” Now she feels like the word belongs to her, and any lingering salaciousness she feels at its use only serves to excite her.

“And what else do you love?”

She looks up into his waiting eyes. “I love it when you come inside me,” she says in her wanton voice, her slut’s voice. “I love it when you come gallons, hot streaks of spunk flooding my cunt and my womb as you throb inside me, your come running over my cunt lips and down between the cheeks of my arse.”

He groans with satisfaction at the rawness of her words, at their candid intensity. He draws back from her, hesitating for a moment with the tip of his glans barely still inside her, and then he thrusts into the core of her once more. He doesn’t pause this time when he reaches the hilt; instead, he draws back again, beginning to thrust, his cadence measured, unhurried. All the time, his thumb strokes her clitoris, south to north, south to north, his caresses timed perfectly to blend with the movements of his cock as it pistons back and forth within the velvet clasp of her sex. He knows her rhythms so well. Soon, the tiny fireworks behind her eyes have been obliterated by explosions that rock her senses, and the orgasm that has threatened for so long finally overwhelms her. She cries out, the heat flushing through her face and her chest and her body spasming from top to toe.

“Oh fuck!” she gasps, grateful that they’ve left the windows closed tight, that the windows are double-glazed and close to soundproof.

Still he fucks her, not allowing her the chance to recover from her climax. He pauses in the strumming of her clitoris because he knows how hypersensitive she can be post-orgasm. Instead, he concentrates on his thrusts, his hands reaching up to cup her breasts as his strokes become more forceful. Already, she can tell how he’s losing his detachment, becoming less constrained in the way he is taking his pleasure. She looks up into his face and sees that the reserve, the confident arrogance, has been wiped from his features, washed away by his own rising passions.

“Yes,” she says greedily, expectantly. “Fuck me! Fuck me hard! Come inside me!”

“Deep inside you,” he groans.

She reaches up, grasping him about the back of the neck with one hand. She pulls his mouth down to hers.

“Deep inside. Deep inside my cunt,” she gasps and then she kisses him with the same fervour he kissed her with when he first arrived.

He groans lustily into her mouth, his speed increasing again. She feels his body tense against hers; the contrast is delicious, hard against soft, giver against receiver. She encircles his waist with her legs, increasing the depth of his thrusts, the pressure of his pubis against her clitoris.

“I’m coming again,” she cries, and she grinds herself into him just as she feels his cock beginning to throb and pulsate.

He cries out with his own completion, pressing his mouth hard against hers as his seed erupts, as the warmth of his ejaculate bathes her secret flesh. He thrusts throughout his orgasm; even when she is sure that he is spent, he continues to thrust, pressing himself into her, and she reciprocates his efforts by squeezing out a third orgasm against his pubis.

His kisses are tender now, still passionate, but softer, lingering. The beast within him has been sated, quenched. Ironically, the lustful, wanton creature within herself – her inner slut, as she sometimes thinks of that part of her desire – is wide-awake. If there were time, she would lead him into the shower now, gently soap every inch of his body, rouse his body once more. But there is no time, not if they’re to avoid detection.

“You have to leave,” she says.

He doesn’t say anything right away, and for a few seconds, she fears that he is going to be difficult. Then he says, “I know.” He kisses the tip of her nose and slips out of her. She watches him walk into the en-suite and listens to him urinate. She makes a mental note to make certain that the toilet seat is down before her husband arrives home.

The toilet flushes and then the basin taps run. She sits up, straightening her rumpled clothes as best she can; as soon as her lover has left, she’ll bury them in the laundry basket, mixing them in with the existing clothes. Her husband is completely undomesticated, so there’s little danger of him picking up on the scent of her lover’s aftershave.

He comes out of the bathroom, patting his face dry with a towel. He dresses almost as quickly as he disrobed.

“Where did you park?” she asks.

“One street away.”

She nods appreciatively at his caution. “Can you go out the back, though? Just in case.”

It’s obvious that the prospect of leaving by the tradesman’s entrance isn’t pleasing to him, but he acquiesces all the same. As she’s already determined, the beast is spent.

She leads him to the kitchen door. The back garden opens out onto parkland, and a path running behind the estate. It’ll be a short walk back to his car, and far more discreet than having him waltz smugly down her driveway.

He kisses her before he opens the door. “I’ll call you,” he says.

“I’ll be waiting.”

He turns and walks down the path that splits the garden in two without a single glance back.

She closes and locks the kitchen door, then runs upstairs and strips herself naked. She steps into the shower and turns the temperature as high as she can bear. She washes herself thoroughly, a sense of remorse and disappointment running through her as she watches the last remnants of his seed flowing down the drain. As she dries herself in front of the full-length mirrored wardrobe, she checks her face and neck for signs of betrayal. There are none. She sighs with relief.

She wraps herself in a soft cotton kimono and sits on the edge of the bed as she towels her hair. She hears the key turn in the front door and the sound of her husband putting down his briefcase and hanging up his coat.

“I’m home,” he calls out.

“Up here,” she answers.

Her body is still alive with sensation. It’s like the after effect of an electric shock, a low thrum running through every part of her. It makes her feel alive.

His footsteps start ascending the stairs.

She waits, watching the open bedroom doorway. Then she undoes the belt on her robe and opens it wide. She positions herself on the very edge of the bed with her thighs splayed. There is guilt at having betrayed her husband, and she must atone for that. There is need too – the need to reclaim her customary role, to restore equilibrium. But above both of those things, there is fire; the fire of desire that still burns within her, the fire that needs to be doused before her flesh can settle back into the mundaneness of her regular life.

And as her husband reaches the top of the staircase, she trails her fingertips along the insides of her thighs and smiles.

Feel my fingers in your hair, cara. Feel them entwine themselves in your silken tresses, in your cascade of curls; feel them grip firmly, commanding, drawing you back towards me. Feel your naked body arching, convex and concave at once, as you yield to the force, as you yield to me.

Feel the fingertips of my free hand tracing the gentle curve of your spine, from the nape of your slender neck to the point where your waist flares, becoming the curvaceousness of your hips and your arse. Feel my eyes upon you, burning with desire, committing every exquisite detail of your form to memory.

Feel my burnished glans nudging a lecherous path between your parted lips; my length eager, greedy, to follow on, to sheath itself in the velvet heat and wetness of your sex, your lust. Feel my fingers tighten in your hair, my nakedness firm behind yours, taut, primed … to thrust, to invade you, to take you as mine.

Feel the flood of wet excitement between your thighs. Feel yourself quivering expectantly, deliciously.

Feel, cara. Feel….

Finally, she sends him the text message that tells him she won’t be able to make their assignation this evening. She presses the red ‘send’ key with a manicured finger that suddenly weighs a ton or more. Sadly, she watches as the progress bar fills from left to right, and then the phone chimes with a hateful brightness to signal that the message has gone, that it is irrevocably speeding its way through the electronic ether towards its intended recipient.

She places the phone down on her desk and pushes the traitorous technology away. She’s dallied sending the message for more than two hours, ever since the call from her husband informed her that his plans had changed, leaving her with no choice but to cancel. And yet half a dozen times, she had begun to tap out the letters that, ultimately, spelled only one word – DISAPPOINTMENT – only to cancel the message after little more than a line. And each time she would will herself to think of some clever deviousness that would allow her to fulfil her desire, only to be driven back to the phone and the anonymous entry in her contacts list that read ‘IT Support’.

It is done now, though; little point in pouting about things that might have been. Another opportunity will present itself in the next week or two, she is sure. She addresses her keyboard and begins to compose a letter to one of her company’s main suppliers.

Unless he’s grown tired of your excuses. Of your last minute cancellations.

Something akin to terror slices through her. It’s true; this is not the first time that she’s had to cancel one of their rendezvous because her home life has thrown up an unexpected roadblock at the eleventh hour. How much more will he take? He has the same commitments she does – wife, children, career – yet he seems able to conjure free time at will. Even so, time is still a precious commodity to him. How much more of it will he be prepared to waste on her?

Troubled, she tries to turn her mind back to her work.

An hour later, her phone rings. The caller ID is his. She reaches for the phone as though it might be electrified, the adrenalin coursing through her.

“Hello?”

“So … his plans interfere with ours again.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Did you tell him to change his plans?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then you have nothing to apologise for.” She can hear the smile in his voice. “Why don’t you go down to reception? I’ve had a little something messengered over for you.”

The line goes dead.

The sense of relief is immense. She gets to her feet on legs still quivering from the outpouring of her adrenal gland. She walks down the empty corridor towards the lift, wondering what he might have sent her. Flowers would be too obvious, impossible to hide at work or to explain at home. Lingerie? She recalls a small black and gilt box bearing the inscription ‘Agent Provocateur’ he presented her with in a top floor suit at the Radisson Edwardian on New Providence Wharf, and her mouth curls upwards with delicious anticipation.

As she passes the stationary store, a powerful hand grips her about the forearm. She’s dragged inside the small room before she can utter the vaguest protest. The door clicks shut, and then she is being encircled in two strong arms, and a clever, lecherous mouth is pressing against hers.

“What … how the hell did you get in here?” she stutters as she breaks the kiss.

“I wasn’t going to miss out on seeing you again,” he says, his mouth curling wickedly. He kisses her again, his mouth soft and strong all at once. The musk scent of his aftershave – Obsession for Men – excites her as it always does. She feels herself melting into him almost instantly.

Somehow, she manages to break their kiss for a second time. “You still haven’t explained how you got in here.”

“I told them I was here for an appointment. Don’t I look like a respectable businessman?”

He does. His dark blue suit with the narrow pinstripes makes him look every part the modern city businessman. She’s not really surprised that he’s been able to talk his way effortlessly into what’s meant to be a secure building. He has the unfailing confidence of the Devil himself.

He pulls her close again, and she feels him, hard and straining beneath the front of his trousers. She presses herself against him, the sensation of him against her mound so exciting. Her tongue darts against his, and she feels the heat and the wetness at her core beginning to bloom.

Then she remembers where they are.

She tries to push him away again. “We can’t. Not here.”

“Why not?” His hands cup her full breasts through her crisp white cotton blouse. “Are you expecting someone else?”

“No. But what if someone tries to come in here?”

Casually, he reaches to the door handle and turns the locking mechanism fully clockwise. “Now they can’t.”

“So they’ll stand outside banging on the door instead.”

He smiles and tries to kiss her again. Her heart is racing and her cunt is slick fire, but she tries again to struggle out of his grasp.

“We can’t do this” she hisses.

He cups her face in one hand. “Are you going to meet me this evening?”

“You know that I can’t!”

He blinks, twice. Then he begins to undo the buttons on the front of her blouse.

“Michael-”

He kisses her again as his hand cups her left breast through her bra. His cock is unyielding against her loins, insistent, rapacious. She feels herself melting again, overwhelmed by his passion, by his animal need for her. In that instant, she succumbs. She gasps as his hand slips inside the cup of her brassiere, his fingers finding the hard nipple, encircling it, squeezing it lightly and then with controlled savagery. She plunges her tongue into his mouth as he pulls on her taut flesh.

“Take your skirt off for me,” he whispers urgently. Only seconds ago, she would have told him he was a fool for even suggesting it. Now she willingly reaches behind herself, undoes the button and quickly draws down the zip. The skirt and its lining hiss as they slide down her legs. She steps out of the crumpled circle of material and pushes it to one side with her toe.

“This is insane,” she says, and then she makes a liar of herself by kissing him again, even more passionately. She’s wearing tights beneath the skirt, and beneath them a black cotton thong. Hardly the raciest of lingerie, but she likes to save herself for their meetings. She relishes the contrast between her normal self, and the woman she becomes when she’s meeting him. This is the first time that the two sides of her have collided in the presence of this man. It disconcerts her and excites her all at once.

You’re the insane one, she thinks.

He turns her around so she is facing away from him, and he presses her hands against two piles of A4 paper reams stacked waist high.

She tries to look back at him over her shoulder. “But I want to see you, touch you, taste you.”

“Another time,” he says in a masculine monotone. “When we have more time.”

She feels him take hold of the back of her pantihose. His fingers pull with sudden, controlled violence, and there is the shocking sound of material tearing. She feels the coolness of the air on her bare skin. Before she can say a thing, she hears him pulling down the zip on his trousers. He snakes the fingers of one hand under the gusset of her thong and pulls it aside, baring her sex. There is a moment when she feels his smooth, corniced glans against her labia that she thinks he intends to tease her before he enters her. Then he thrusts, one full, nearly savage thrust that impels his full length inside her. His free hand clamps over her mouth to still her cry – partly of pain, mostly of pleasure – and her even white teeth bite down hard on his palm.

“Bitch,” he whispers urgently into her ear, and then his tongue follows his words inside, and she writhes deliciously before the twin penetrations of her body and her soul.

He fucks her rapaciously, making it clear that it’s his pleasure that he’s here to satisfy, that hers is an incidental consequence. And yet knowing that he’s here for his greed, his gluttony, thrills her more that it should, more than it would if this were any other man, and she sees with sudden, pre-orgasmic clarity just how intoxicated she has become with this man, how beholden she now is to this near-stranger’s darkly exciting passion.

He eases both of her breasts from the restraint of her brassiere, cups the full globes in his greedy palms, rolls the bullet-hard nipples between his thumbs and forefingers. She thinks about slipping a hand inside the front of her pantihose so she can manipulate her clitoris, and then realises that she doesn’t have to.

Realising her impending orgasm, he clamps a hand over her mouth again as he presses his lightly stubbled face against the side of her neck.

“Oh … fuck … yes!” she screams mutedly against his palm. Suddenly, it’s his fingers that are inside her tights, that are pressing against her clitoris, and she screams again as a second climax, almost painful in its delivery of pleasure, tears through her.

Gradually, the dizziness fades and she comes back to herself.

“Can I come inside you?” he asks her. She shakes her head.

“I don’t have my diaphragm.” Saying it aloud makes her realise that, unlike all the other times, this sex has been completely unprotected. She shudders, again gripped by a duality of emotions, equal in intensity and yet completely opposite in their cause.

He grunts, and then there is the disappointment of him withdrawing his flesh from hers. Immediately, she feels the underside of his shaft press against her right buttock as he begins to come. Timed to perfection. His gasp of pleasure is controlled, yet pronounced. There is a vague feeling of warmth and wetness through the nylon, and the smell of male seed is suddenly very strong.

He rubs his glans against her through the pantihose. “I almost like it better this way.” Even without turning, she knows that he is smiling. “Now you’ll be able to smell me on you for the rest of the day.”

She reaches back, running her fingertips through the viscous trail of his climax. She smoothes it against her, rubbing it into the nylon, into her skin. She knows that he is right; she’ll be able to smell him on her no matter how she might try to close her mind to him. It is an exhilarating thought.

She swiftly pulls on her skirt and adjusts her clothing. She looks up into his watchful face. She can’t keep the frightened words from spilling out.

“Am I going to see you again?”

He smiles, warmly this time. “What do you think?” He kisses her mouth softly, then the tip of her nose. He unlocks the door, discreetly checks the corridor both ways, and then walks out, striding confidently away towards the staircase that leads back to the building’s reception area.

She closes the door behind him, locking it so that she can rest her forehead against the cool wood and regain her composure. Only now does she realise what she risked: exposure, humiliation, even dismissal. Her husband would have to be told the truth. And what then? Familial disgrace? Divorce? Ruination?

And yet despite the ice that drips down her spine at such thoughts, she is unable to keep him from her mind. She walks back to her desk, her appearance and demeanour betraying nothing of what has just occurred, already impatient for the next message that will tell her that he is waiting for her once more.

He pushes himself back from his desk in frustration, the wheels on his high backed leather chair rolling across the oak flooring, carrying him back from the impotent keyboard, the mockingly blank page upon the screen. His slitted eyes alternate between the two pieces of equipment. He wonders which would be the most satisfying to destroy first.

He leans back in his chair, staring sightlessly up at the matt whiteness of the ceiling. She talks to him of wanting to be plundered … of sensual trespass and wicked, decadent exploration. And yet he knows that she’s wondering if he truly wants such an opportunity, if he isn’t simply toying with her for his base amusement.

He does want the opportunity, though. Desperately. He craves it. He burns with it.

Oh, for the chance to kiss her sensuous lips with passionate intensity, his kisses leaving her breathless in their wake, their warm dampness setting her body on fire. He wants to melt away that look of determined cynicism he sometimes imagines her wearing, the look that wards off the insipid and the foolish … the look that challenges his maleness and dares him to be bold.

He feels himself stirring, filling, at just the thought of learning the delightful subtleties and nuances of her mouth.

Closing his eyes, he pictures her standing before him, in the evening hush of some anonymous hotel room. Their gazes lock as his fingers slowly work their way down the fastenings of her clothes, as he peels them apart and guides them from her flesh, unveiling her a piece at a time, until she’s naked but for the lacy blackness of her lingerie. He shivers as he imagines himself running his palms over her shoulders and down the outsides of her arms, imagines her skin prickling into goose-flesh at the gentle, teasing nature of his touch.

He hooks a single finger under both straps of her brassiere and scoops them over her shoulders. Now he can draw down the front of the lacy cups, baring the glory of her breasts. His eyes drink her in as his hands cup her warm flesh.

Plundering, he thinks absently. Such a perfect word for such a wonderfully libidinous act.

He brushes his thumbs across the hard crowns of her nipples, relishing their tonal transformation from the palest pink to the darkest crimson as they rise further, as her desire blooms. He bows his head to her bosom, delicately capturing each nipple in turn, brushing them with the edges of his lips, circling them slowly with the tip of his tongue. Her breath catches in her throat as he ministers to her flesh, and then she gasps with pleasure and cups his head in her hands, holding his mouth against her, telling him to be gentle to begin with, and then urging him to suckle more forcefully, brushing his teeth across the taut peaks, making her nerve endings sparkle and dance.

He turns her towards the bed, bids her to lie back against the king-sized counterpane. He slips down her body, pressing delicate, lingering kisses against her skin as he descends. He takes his time, using his lips to stitch random lines of tingling pleasure across the plane of her belly, down the sides of her abdomen, across her prominence of her hips. He strokes his palms and his fingertips along the tops and the sides of her thighs, down onto her slender calves, where he cups the lithe muscles, working them gently as his kisses transition from flesh to fabric.

She shivers as he kisses her mound through the lace; she shivers with the realisation of how close his mouth is to her sex. He lingers, making himself wait so that he can smell her excitement, breath in the secret scent of her lust. He can’t help but wonder if the other men who’ve been granted the revelation of so sacred a mystery have felt this excited, this fortunate.

His willpower is not as great as he’d like it to be. As much as he wants to linger, he wants to kiss her lower as well. You’re only human, he thinks as he begins to descend once more, until his mouth is on her sex, until he is kissing her full labia through the gossamer of her panties.

For a time, he loses himself in his inner monologue.

Does she feel vulnerable, now that her most intimate flesh is shielded from me by only the scantiest of barriers? Is she quivering with burning expectancy, silently imploring me to draw the damp material aside, so that she is unequivocally, irrevocably, bared to my gaze? Is she yearning to feel the rush of cool air against her burning flesh, to feel the softness of my mouth on her sex, to feel my kisses clearly, completely, the prelude to the first, subtle flickering of my tongue?

And as he did with the strap of her brassiere, he hooks his fingers beneath the veil of her underwear and draws the flimsy lace to one side. He makes himself pause again, giving himself the time to drink in her beauty to the soundtrack of the tide of her breathing.

He leans forward and runs the tip of his tongue along a cleft already glistening with her lust. Her flesh is succulent, aromatic, her taste sweetly piquant. His tongue lashes out softly again, and again, and again, each sweep rewarded by the intoxicating sound of her bliss. He slips his free hand up the inside of her thigh so that his hands frame her sex, holding her open, revealing the portal to her innermost sanctuary and baring the diminutive nub that holds dominion over so much of her physical pleasure.

He flickers the very tip of his tongue across its shiny smoothness. Now, finally, she cries out, her voice loud enough to be heard in either of the rooms that flank theirs. He doesn’t care; he knows that she doesn’t either, knows that the prospect of their union being overheard excites her as much as it does him. He licks her clitoris again, this time more slowly, drawing out the sensations deliciously as he washes it with the flat of his tongue. This time, she writhes and grasps at his head, his neck, his shoulders with one hand, while slipping the other up to her mouth so that she can bite down on her fingers.

He feasts upon her without mercy, relishing her wetness, drinking it down when it becomes copious enough. When he senses that her orgasm is close, he slips his index and middle fingers inside her – she’s so wet that their entry is effortless – and curls them so that their tips press firmly against the front wall of her vagina, and he caresses her there as his tongue becomes a pink blur against her clitoris.

She is as loud in orgasm as she had promised him she would be.

And while she is still writhing in the afterglow of her climax, he stands up and undresses swiftly, his eyes never leaving her. He only returns to her when he is naked. Her thighs stray to admit him, the gesture thrilling him. For him, the ultimate blessing has always been that moment when a woman signals her surrender, when she offers herself to him, shows that she wants him inside her. In all his experience, there is no other moment like it.

He brings himself against her searing flesh, parting it at once with his hardness. He thrusts slowly, steadily, into the oiled velvet of her sex, the beguiling clasp of her flesh so similar and yet so, so different to that which he has known before. He closes his eyes as their flesh merges, and in the sweet darkness, his mouth finds hers once more. Their kiss waxes and wanes to the rhythm of their bodies, her soft tongue slipping in and out of his mouth as his cock moves back and forth within her. There was a part of him that had expected their first joining to be frenetic, a dizzying blur of clothes torn aside and naked flesh clapping together in barely constrained desperation. Instead, it is as slow and controlled as he’d hoped it would be, as she had told him she wanted, needed, it to be.

Their kiss breaks. He opens his eyes and sees that she is watching his face intently, her eyes wide, questing. He doesn’t know what answers she seeks in his face. As he looks back at her, she presses herself up at him to meet his next thrust and she bites down hard on her bottom lip as his hard flesh spears her to the very hilt.

“Yes,” she whispers. “Yes. Yes. Yes.”

The burning intensity of her eyes and her whispered encouragement urge him on. He plunders her, just as they both wanted him to. The slow, even pace he’s held begins to quicken. A low sheen begins to form across her breasts and he bends his head to taste the salt on her skin. Her slender legs entwine themselves around the backs of his thighs, binding him to her as she forces herself ever more strongly against him.

“Oh again,” she cries, the whispering abandoned as her pleasure begins to peak for the second time. The rhythm they’ve discovered so easily threatens to overwhelm his control, but he holds on until she climaxes, distracting himself from his own ecstasy until he’s heard her scream with completion, until he’s felt her body undulating wildly beneath him, until he’s felt the points of her nails criss-crossing his shoulder blades … and then he lets go, emptying months of pent-up desire in one exhilarating explosion of throbbing sensation, and her nails score his back and bite into his buttocks as she draws him more tightly inside her. And as he spends himself within her, he kisses her once more, losing himself within the swirling gratification of long-held fantasy.

He opens his eyes.

The matt white ceiling yawns down at him. He sits back upright; the blank page still waits for him on the screen. But now he draws himself back to the keyboard with keenness, with fervour. He pauses only for a moment, relishing the warmth of his thoughts.

Smiling, he begins to type.

She has lost track of how long she has been there.

Though a sliver of lucidity still exists inside her, whispering to her that it’s less than an hour since they bound her wrists and fastened the bonds to the heavy iron eyelet overhead, she has passed the point where she can trust its voice without question. The copious glasses of red wine, the pungent aroma of marijuana from the incense burners, the thrill of what is happening — of what is yet to come — have almost completely warped her perception of time’s passage.

She is experiencing relativity in a manner Einstein is unlikely to have ever imagined.

The others are still here. Ten feet or so away, they continue to watch her, study her, scrutinising her gleaming body. She can hear them, hear their appreciative murmurs, hear them as they slowly pleasure themselves before the alter of her nakedness. She finds herself admiring their restraint. She had half-expected them to descend upon her the instant that she was naked and vulnerable to their greedy desires, to batten on her like sexual vampires. For the first few seconds, she had waited breathlessly for their approach, wondering which of them would be the first to touch her, taste her, take her. She understood that her husband would be the last. He hadn’t said so explicitly, but the voyeur within him would not want to waste so glorious an opportunity. She would not feel his touch until the very end, until he had seen every one of the other ten inside her.

There had been confusion when they had not come to her straight away. She had felt fear, the fear of rejection, the crawling dread that they did not desire her, that the offering before them was unacceptable to their eyes, deficient for the purpose of slaking their libidinous thirst.

And then she had heard the whispers; the sly mutterings of approval, some couth, some coarse beyond her experience. The sounds of zips being drawn downwards had followed, the sounds of clothing being shed, and she realised that they were stripping themselves naked, stroking themselves, running their hands over their swiftly growing cocks. She had a sudden, piercing longing to touch them herself, all of them, one after the other, stroking them until each of them erupted before her wanton eyes, anointing her face and her breasts and her belly with the slickness of their burning lust.

That was when the decadent thrill of what she had agreed to flooded through her, an unstoppable torrent, washing away all the fear and the dread and the uncertainty. That was when she had surrendered to her fate.

Yet they had left her untouched.

So she had hung there; the bare soles of her feet submerged in the luxuriant pile of the dark red carpet, the bonds tight about her wrists, her arms beginning to ache from being held vertically for so long. She felt their slitted gazes upon her, their lustful eyes burning into her skin. All the time, she waited for them to come to her, waited for the first footsteps to approach. And slowly, slowly, time had begun to distort, until now, when she was no longer certain whether minutes were hours, whether hours were days.

And as though they had been waiting for that very moment, when time became fluid for her, winding its way about her and through her at will, she hears the first of them approach. A strong, warm hand takes hold of her right breast, moulding her yielding flesh to its grasp. Her nipples are already hard; they’ve been hard since her husband led her into this room a lifetime ago, since he told her to close her eyes and keep them closed, no matter what, since he unzipped the back of her dress and peeled it down her shoulders, revealing her nakedness for the very first time. It’s the first touch she’s experienced since her bonds were fastened to the eyelet overhead, and it’s enough to make her gasp. The man brushes his palm across the very crown of her nipple, and then he grips her breast once more, squeezing just to the point where pain waits before immediately backing off.

She pants.

As the first man rolls her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, she senses another man approaching. This one draws his fingertips down her belly and along the outside of her left thigh. She keeps her eyes tightly closed as instructed, but she can picture them standing on either side of her, running their hands over her, exploring her. A third man moves to stand behind her. He kisses the nape of her neck, nuzzles her earlobes with his lips, lightly nips them with his teeth. She feels his hard cock pressing against the cheeks of her behind, left then right, as though he wants neither to feel neglected. The men on either side of her fasten their mouths about her nipples, and as their tongues swirl around the hard peaks, she feels the man behind her press the underside of his shaft between her buttocks and begin to thrust.

She bites down on her lower lip to try and still her pleasure, but she has to gasp aloud as teeth graze her taut flesh.

She wonders about her husband’s expression. She tries to imagine how hard he is, watching her being pleasured by this trio of acquaintances.

Another man takes up position at her feet, his hands smoothing their way up the fronts of her shins, then down the backs of her calves. His hands are warm and skilled; they make her shiver deliciously. The men on either side of her reach down towards her loins as their mouths continue to pleasure her breasts. She feels their fingers on her mound, passing through the thin strip of curls that is the only remnant of her visit to the salon, feels their fingers pressing into the fleshy labia shielding the entrance to her sex. They open her, and she gasps again at the sudden feeling of freshness as the cooling air finds its way inside her hot flesh. Before she has chance to explore the sensation, the man on his knees before her presses his eager tongue inside her, curling it into the moist velvet as far as he’s able. She cries out, and were it not for the bonds holding her up, she knows she would have collapsed. As it is, she hangs from the point of suspension, abandoned, her vulnerability crying out to each one of these rakes.

The man at her feet turns his attention to her throbbing clitoris; he lashes it again and again with the flat of his cunning tongue. The men on either side of her hold her open throughout, deepening the sensations. The man performing oral upon her eases two fingers inside her, drawing them against the front wall of her vagina until she is shaking violently and bucking against her bonds. She knows that the marks upon her wrists will linger for days; she’s already consigned herself to wearing long sleeves for the coming week, in spite of the mid-June heat.

Her orgasm, when it comes, is explosive.

It feels as though every nerve ending within her body has instantly been electrified. The mouths on her breasts and her neck, the fingers on her vulva and in her sex, the tongue on her clit, the cock thrusting between her arse cheeks.

For a few moments, she actually loses consciousness.

When she comes back to herself, she is alone. They’ve all drawn away from her. She doesn’t know why, doesn’t know by how much.

She waits silently for what’s next.

The man behind her — she wonders if it is the same man — comes back to her. With one hand, he parts her cheeks whilst the other presses something cold and viscous against her puckered rosebud. A single finger slips inside her, smearing the viscosity around the inner rings of muscle. She knows what is coming, but before she can prepare herself for the invasion, she feels his glans against her, feels it pressing insistently against the forbidden opening. Her mouth turns down in a grimace as his hard flesh impels its way inside her. Suddenly, he is past the rings of muscle, his glans and half his shaft buried within the taboo place. There is burning and some pain, but then there always is. It’s part of the pleasure. There is a tang of violation about the way that they’ve chosen to taken her ass first, but before she can reconcile herself to the fact that the tang excites her as much as it shames, she senses another man before her and immediately feels his cockhead against her clitoris. He excites her still-throbbing flesh with his own as the one behind begins to fuck her in earnest. The sensations blend together somewhere deep inside her, and she groans with decadent pleasure once more. She senses another orgasm rushing towards her through the self-imposed darkness, and just as her climax reaches her, the man standing before her slips his glans downwards and thrusts himself inside her cunt to the hilt.

She has never felt so ruthlessly filled, so utterly thrilled.

“Oh fuck!” she cries, unable to stop herself from enunciating her pleasure. She could not have stopped herself if there had been a gun pressed to her forehead and tension upon the trigger.

The hard, thick cocks filling her, thrusting into her, carry her through the second orgasm and straight into the clutches of a third. She senses the hard shafts rubbing together inside her, separated only by the thinnest of barriers. She has never felt this wanton, this whorish.

She smiles with satisfaction. Time loops around her again as she wallows in the glory of the sensations coursing through her.

Neither of the men inside her wears a condom. The sliver of lucidity left within her hopes that they’ll withdraw before they climax, but the remainder of her knows that they won’t, and doesn’t want them to.

The man inside her sex is the first to come. He presses his stubbled face against the side of her throat, his lips pursed against her skin as he reaches for her breasts, and she cries out again as she feels his shaft throbbing within the sanctity of her cunt, feels the hot spurt of the stranger’s seed coating her velvet flesh, splashing against her cervix. He withdraws, and as he does so, the man behind her grunts and grips her hips as his cock — no longer impinged upon by the other — presses inside her to its own limit.

The sensation of semen surging into her rectum is not as keen as it was in her vagina, but she relishes it all the same.

The man behind her does not linger within her either. He withdraws his wilting flesh from her, and she sags against her bonds. Her vagina and her anus are warm and wet and used. In real life, she would never countenance such things, but this is fantasy; dark, rich, decadent fantasy, and it is as exhilarating as she’d fathomed it might be, as exhilarating as her husband had promised her.

She senses yet more men approaching her. She wonders if her husband is still excited. She finds that she doesn’t care. This is her time. Hers.

Eyes tightly closed, she raises her face to the heavens.

“Take me,” she says in a low, sultry voice that she’s never heard before. “Take me.”

It’s agonising, this frustration I feel … the frustration at not being able to touch you and taste you and breathe you in, in all the ways that I’ve imagined, in all the ways that I’ve dreamed. It’s like hitting a brick wall naked, at speed. It makes me ache. It hurts.

I haven’t come in more than a week. The last time I came, I was alone in bed, looking at your photograph, imagining what it would be like to be naked between my crisp sheets with you. I keep the Polaroid you sent me – where the hell did you manage to find a Polaroid camera and film? – between the pages of the copy of Delta of Venus that seems to have been beside my bed for as long as I can recall. I climaxed staring at it, fantasising about slipping my fingers between your skin and the edge of your black bra and then slowly drawing the cups down, revealing your breasts with agonising deliberateness before bowing my head and capturing your hard nipples between my greedy lips.

I wish you were here right now, so that I could plunge my hard cock into the depths of your moist, velvet cunt, so that I could kiss you tenderly, passionately, as I thrust into the moist heat at the centre of you, so that I could feel your thighs entwined about my waist, binding me to you, feel your nails dragging across my back, marking me with your desire, so that I could feel your heart thudding against my chest, and hear your cries of pleasure, hear you extolling me to come so you could feel my seed erupting deep within you.

I can’t tell you how much I hunger for that first, wondrous moment as my hard cock cleaves your yielding flesh in two, as your body welcomes me, sheathes me, takes me. Just thinking of that moment leaves my breath ragged and hot.

I don’t just want to fuck you, though. I want to taste you, too. I have to taste you. I want to run my tongue over every millimetre of your sex, charting the succulence of your cleft, rimming the very edges of your cunt, dipping my tongue into it and then plunging it deep inside you to explore the velvet within. I want to kiss your clitoris, to flicker the tip of my tongue across that hard, swollen nub, sucking it softly between my lips and then strumming it until you spasm and clutch at my head and call out with your thunderous orgasm.

I want everything with you … every last thing that a man and woman can do together, that they can do to one another, to give and take pleasure. I know that you can propel me to the brink of the sweetest exhaustion and then revive me, over and over again. I want you to have that chance. The sight of your exquisite body would banish my fatigue, just as the whispering of your desire instantly strips away my self-control.

Oh, I so want to fuck you.

I so need to fuck you.

This is no good. My desire is close to fever pitch once again, and so is that wretched feeling of crashing painfully into an unyielding wall that refuses to let me pass.

My new erotic fiction book – Concupiscent – is finally out and available to purchase. As usual, it’s published by Lulu.com, and is available in both print and download versions. For the early birds amongst you, there’s a 10% discount on the paperback price and a 15% discount on the price of the download.

Concupiscent is a collection of ten erotic stories written at various times over the last few years, and saved up especially for just such a volume. The stories are:

• Coquine – One man sees the subject of a long-held desire come surprisingly into focus.
• Public – Just how daring can two people be in plain sight of the World?
• The Gift – A mysterious invitation leads a married man to an unexpected doorway.
• Resurrection – A neglected woman finds that rebirth can come from within and without.
• Focus – Two is often better than one – especially when it comes to hosts.
• Contractual Obligations – Prying into the lives of others can be revelatory in unexpected ways.
• L’avantage – If you put yourself in a vulnerable position, don’t be surprised when someone tries to take advantage.
• Hour of the Wolf – Late at night is the perfect time for illicit thoughts … and assignations.
• Voile – People have all sorts of reasons for being unfaithful.
• The Ultimate – A jaded woman learns that satisfaction can be addictive … and dangerous.

“No,” she pants. “You can’t.”

He doesn’t respond to her with words. Instead, his lips continue pressing insistently against the nape of her neck, the stubble on his face gently scratching her as he nuzzles the softness beneath her ear. Her nerve endings are afire, crackling with electricity at every kiss he plants, at every whisper of his warm breath – redolent with the sinful tangs of rum and cigarettes – against her skin. And all the time, his hard, thick cock is inside her, conquering the sanctity of her sex with long, steady thrusts that are utterly irresistible.

“Yes,” he growls against her ear. The sound of his voice – low, demanding, vaguely menacing in its masculinity – sends a thrill coursing down her spine and brings a fresh flood of viscid moistness to her cunt. “I want it. So do you.”

“No,” she groans. “No, please.”

But she knows there is a part of her that is lying to him. A large part, perhaps even the biggest part of her. Because deep inside, in the secret place where she fosters the darkest, most succulent of her fantasies, she does want it. She wants it desperately. Wants him to take her in that forbidden way, the way she’s never dared to explore before this moment, the way that she’s always denied to herself, denied to her husband, in spite of the years of cajoling and entreating and naked, shameless begging.

She’s a married woman, though; a woman for whom adultery is both a pleasure and a sin, for whom the afternoon trysts, the occasional clandestine evenings are simultaneously a source of shame and a spring of satisfaction. The two emotions constantly wax and wane inside her, indivisible, one feeding the other. Whenever she sees him undressing, whenever she watches the muscles flex in his body as he walks in confident nakedness towards her, she feels them well up within her, and she knows that her excitement is all the more delectable because it is forbidden, because it is wrong. And each time that she surrenders to the arcane wantonness inside her, each time that she gives herself to him, abandons herself to him, the act alone is usually enough to make her come.

And so when her lover brusquely spoke his desire to penetrate her anus, to take her in that taboo way, she shuddered more deeply than she ever had before because the shame she felt at the prospect of giving herself that way for the very first time to a stranger excited her so damned much.

But the shreds of the puritan that still exist inside her demand that she resists, that she say no.

“We can’t,” she says again, even as she feels his hard flesh withdrawing from hers, even as she feels his glans slipping downwards, feels it beginning to press against the tightly puckered opening.

“No,” she whimpers, meaning ‘no’, meaning ‘yes’, meaning ‘make the choice for me’. An act of betrayal has never felt so blackly exciting to her.

I am so fucking wet, she realises.

And as she thinks it, his cock – still slick with her own lust – enters her again. There is pain, a burning pain as he breaches the tight rings of muscle, and then he is inside her, the first man ever. He keeps moving forward, slow, relentless, until he is impossibly deep, embedded within her, filling her as she has never been filled. His hand slips between her thighs, cupping her still-throbbing sex, his artful fingers finding her clitoris, propelling her back into pleasure. Her excitement is immense, overwhelming, and when she finally orgasms, it is explosive. Her flesh convulses about his, carrying him with her. Her cries of delight climb as she feels the hot spurts of seed erupting within her darkness. Another first.

They lie together, panting, mated naturally and unnaturally; illicit lovers in an illicit embrace. And as she feels his flesh beginning to dwindle within her, her conscience is tumbled over and over by the waves of fulfilment and guilt, and she wonders not for the first time if she will ever discover a contentment that leaves her feeling truly at peace.