It’s a little after eight when he hears the rattle of a diesel engine pulling up outside the house. A succession of noises tells him that his wait is finally over: the slamming of a car door; the squeal of the garden gate that’s been waiting patiently for the Three-in-One oil since the end of summer; the rapid double-click of a woman’s heels making their way up the slabbed pathway to the front door.
The doorbell rings.
He shivers, and then thinks, Idiot! She’s here to do a favour for a friend.
Despite the self-reproach, he can’t stop himself from checking his reflection in the long mirror before he steps forward and pulls open the door.
“Hello,” she says, smiling up at him. He’s forgotten how diminutive she is, only a few inches over five feet even in her heels, and so slight, he could scoop her into his arms with barely an effort.
“Hello there,” he says back, trying to portray a cool detachment he doesn’t feel.
“Sorry I’m late.” She’d told his wife that she’d be there by seven-thirty.
“No need to apologise.” He steps back, holds out an arm to invite her inside. “You’re the one doing me the favour.”
“I would have been on time,” she says as she passes him. Her perfume is light, evocative of citrus and sandalwood. Jasamber? In her right hand, she carries a cumbersome-looking bag that he assumes contains her sewing kit. He holds out a hand, but she doesn’t see it or chooses to ignore it.
“Through here?” she asks, nodding at the living room door. She nudges the door open, still talking as she walks through. “That useless bastard of mine decided to have ‘one more beer’ with his so-called friends before he brought the car home. I shouldn’t have been surprised.” She pauses. “I ought to pay him back by reporting him for drunk-driving.”
He’s surprised by her venom, and mentally crosses ‘How’s your husband?‘ off the list of possible conversation openers. Even so, the hint of domestic disenchantment is not displeasing. He closes the front door and follows his guest into the living room.
Angela has set down her heavy bag. She shrugs off her coat and drapes it over the back of the sofa. He likes how she doesn’t stand on ceremony.
She turns to face him. “So where is it?”
The suit that he needs altering hangs over one of the dining chairs. He catches the hanger’s hook on three fingers and passes it to her. She takes it from him, and as she does so, her fingertips brush against his. It’s as though someone has injected lightning into his arm. His eyes slip guiltily away from hers, but not before he thinks he sees the same startled look in her expression.
“Do you want to get started, or can I offer you a drink first?” He’s sure he knows the answer. Angela has never refused a drink in favour of work before.
“Do you have any whisky?”
“I have bourbon.”
“A little Jack Daniels with some ice would be lovely.”
The spirits are kept in the kitchen. While he pours out a single measure of bourbon for her and a double for himself, he listens to the sounds of her unpacking. By the time he walks back into the living room, she has enough equipment to set up a small sweatshop.
“I hadn’t realised we were going into the rag trade.”
“You want it altering properly, don’t you?”
“Of course.” He sits down, and takes a long drink. “I just don’t want to put you to any trouble.”
Angela regards him carefully, and then her smile lights up her face. “It’s no trouble. Not for a friend.”
He’s caught off guard. He thought she was his wife’s friend. It’s the first time she’s ever referred to him in such a way. It fires his guilt. “Well, I owe you all the same,” he says.
“Fine. You owe me.” Angela walks to the chair opposite his and sits down. Her skirt rides up a few inches, and its lining hisses against the nylon sheathing her legs. He can’t help but steal a glance. Her thighs are taut and shapely.
Are they pantyhose or stockings? His quest for knowledge is defeated by the length of her skirt and the level of the lighting.
She takes a long pull at her bourbon. “I’ve needed that since 9am,” she sighs. “I just didn’t realise it until now.”
“Hard day at work?”
“At home, too.”
He gets up, fetches the bottle of Jack Daniels, and makes to pour more into her glass.
“I’ve got to drive home. Remember?”
“Leave the car here. I’ll phone you a taxi. Hayley can pick you up on the way to work, and bring you back here tomorrow. The car will be fine outside.”
A shadow flitters across her expression. “I don’t know.”
He pours more bourbon into her glass. “I won’t take no for answer. Just don’t get so tipsy you end up sticking a needle somewhere delicate.”
Angela laughs. “Now there’s a thought.”
They drink in silence. He realises that he’s seeing someone new: the real Angela. Not the one who is his wife’s friend, who he might wave to outside the offices where both women work, or eat and drink with when the two couples become a foursome once or twice a year. He’s always thought of her as an associate – more than a meer acquaintance, short of an intimate friend. They’ve never spent enough time in one another’s company to relax fully when they’re together. But now he is seeing the woman as herself. Not the socially pretentious affectation, but the Angela who is late for appointments, who drinks to relax. The Angela whose marriage might not be the bed of roses she has described to his wife.
“We’d better get started,” Angela says with a hint of resignation. She gazes at the bottom of her glass, then finishes the last of her bourbon and stands up.
“On your feet, soldier. You’re no use to me on your ass.”
She sets about turning him into a tailor’s dummy. With tape measure in hand, she becomes all business, conducting herself almost sombrely. She notes every conceivable dimension his arms, torso and legs possess.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m starving,” he tells her. She is busy scribbling on the suit’s trousers with a piece of tailors’ chalk. “Can I fix you something to eat?”
She shakes her head. “I’ll take another drink, though.”
“Just remember where you’re putting those needles.”
This time she cackles.
He pours two more bourbons, then goes into the kitchen and starts scrambling some eggs. He watches her work while he’s stirring. She looks up and sees his attention. Their eyes lock together for a few seconds before he turns away to dig the heavy skillet from the cupboard where it lives.
He cooks the eggs, butters some toast and carries the plated food into the living room. He sits at the long dining table, and then realises that he’s drained his glass again. She smiles knowingly.
“And it’s a school night, too.”
“I won’t tell teacher if you don’t.”
The words sound more loaded than he’d intended, but instead of reacting frostily, she smiles a sly, wanton smile, and brings her index finger to her lips.
“Your secret’s safe with me, sir.”
He swallows, his mouth suddenly cotton dry.
She works while he eats. They finish at much the same time.
“Ready to try them on?” she asks.
“As I’m ever likely to be.”
“It’s as well you’ve finished eating. I would have made you wear those eggs for insulting my seamstressing. ”
“As if I’d dare.”
She looks at him piercingly. “I’ve always imagined you capable of all sorts of daring.”
He doesn’t know what to say. She raises an enigmatic eyebrow, drains her glass, then goes through to the kitchen and pours herself another measure of Jack. Recharged, she holds out the new trousers for him to try. He looks about the room hesitantly.
She laughs. “Would sir like directions to the changing cubicles?”
“No need to be bashful on my account. Trust me: I’m not likely to be surprised by anything I encounter in the next half-hour.”
A burst of irritated adrenalin flushes away his diffidence.
“As you wish.”
He unbuttons and unzips the jeans he’s wearing, thrusts them down to his ankles and steps out of them. He kicks the pool of denim behind him and holds out a hand for the trousers. His legs are well built, sculpted by years of swimming and cycling. He still feels ridiculous, though, standing before her in just his shorts and socks.
She hands him the trousers. He steps into them. She steps close, walks around him, marks the trousers again with her tailor’s chalk, places pins wherever she feels them needed. The bouquet of her perfume is much stronger now. The thud of his heart is loud in his ears.
She kneels down in front of him, fussing over the length of the cuffs. He can’t help but notice how the front of her blouse hangs forward, displaying her full breasts. The deep vee of her cleavage and the black lace bra beyond are mesmerising. The movement of his cock is involuntary, and he reacts by trying to pivot his mind from the unashamed display of her womanliness, to fill his imagination with the most hideous, distracting things of which he can conceive.
He might have achieved it if he had closed his eyes. But he cannot tear his gaze away from the sight of her soft, bountiful flesh. His cock twitches again.
Angela looks up. She sees that his eyes are locked upon her breasts. He realises that she is watching him watching her. He cannot stop the blush that blooms in his face. Suddenly, he is a teenaged swimmer again, mortified because he has been caught staring at a woman whose swimming costume is tight enough or small enough to leave little to the imagination of a horny, pubescent male.
Resignedly, he waits for the storm.
Instead, she smiles; the same sly, wanton smile she’d turned on him before. His cock lurches for a third time, well on the way to full tumescence now. Perhaps the second had caught the periphery of her attention. Now she fully sees the movement behind the wool.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks in a calm voice.
He swallows, tries to steady his racing thoughts, to consider his options. He decides to gamble.
“How good it would feel to have you take my cock in your mouth.”
She studies his face for what seems like forever. He waits for her to stand up, to slap his face, to storm out of the house. She’d be keying his wife’s telephone number into her iPhone before she reached the street. Instead, she reaches up to his waist, undoes the button, unzips the fly, eases his trousers back down his legs. One of her pins catches his skin, but he hides his wince convincingly. He’s terrified that she might stop, might come to her senses if he departs from this ad hoc script for even for a second.
His thick cock is clearly defined by the thinness of his cotton shorts. She reaches out a finger and slowly traces the outline of his erection. He shivers, then watches with delicious bewilderment as she hooks all eight fingers into the waistband of his shorts and eases them down his muscular thighs.
His cock springs forward, eager to know her touch, her kiss.
She accepts the gift, takes it carefully in her right hand and leisurely rolls back the foreskin.
“Nice,” she says, her voice dreamy, absent, as though she’s speaking to herself. “And I said I wasn’t likely to be surprised.”
She draws his cock towards her mouth. The feel of her velvet tongue against the head of his prick is electric. She isn’t a woman giving to waiting, though, and he cries out softly she takes his length into her mouth. She reaches behind him and cups his buttocks, so that he can’t escape. He cannot imagine anything that would make him want to do such a thing.
She draws back, her lips encircling his shaft, sucking on his length as though he were a popsicle. He can’t remember the last time that his wife took him in her mouth. Was it two years ago? Three? His head goes back and he closes his eyes, revelling in the glory of the moment. She moves again, forward, backwards, each pass a fraction of a fraction quicker than the last. With one hand, she cups his balls, cradles them, her fingertips stroking the skin behind. She draws lazy circles around his anus, making him shiver. He rocks back and forth on his heels, softly fucking her mouth, his fingers stroking the softness of her hair. She moans about his hard flesh, a sound of contentment. Even in the eddies of his pleasure, he has the capacity to wonder if there will be enough time for him to return the favour, if she will permit him to pleasure her in as intimate a way. His mouth waters at the prospect of tasting her cunt, of swallowing her rich, copious juices.
He is on the verge of coming when he hears a car pulling into the driveway.
His panic is as sudden and all consuming as the lust that preceded it. He tries to pull back from the sweet allure of her mouth, but she grips his buttocks in hands suddenly made of steel, and her manicured nails bite deep into his flesh.
“Angela! For God’s sake!”
She doesn’t stop, doesn’t even hesitate. Her only notable response to the danger is to quicken her tempo. It’s still controlled, though, as far from frantic as he is from calm. He realises that she won’t release him until he has ejaculated, until she has tasted his seed. He would have to tear her from his flesh to be free of her now, and he winces at the prospect. He resigns himself to his fate.
Be careful what you wish for.
And there is a part of him, a dark, twisted part, that doesn’t want her to stop. Not until he explodes across her waiting tongue. Not until his wife walks into the room and sees his cock pulsing in her friend’s mouth.
He hears the driver’s door open and close, the click of the central locking as his wife thumbs the remote. The rush of pleasure and terror is immense, indivisible. His wife’s measured footsteps approach along the pathway. He cannot help but picture the sight that will greet her when she comes into the lounge. Divorce will likely be only the beginning of his woes. And yet there is that dark compulsion to be caught, to be afforded the chance to say to her: Do you see? Do you see what you’ve inspired me to? Do you see what you’ve made me capable of?
His pleasure surges, a black river flecked with scarlet. He quickens his pace, pistoning in and out of Angela’s complicit mouth. He feels the familiar shuddering in his belly and his balls, and he groans as he comes in her mouth in hot, guilty spurts. She strokes him hard through his climax, pumping his shaft as though determined to milk him of every drop. She swallows his seed as though it is nectar.
She licks her lips contentedly as she watches him haul his shorts and trousers back into place. They both hear the sound of a key being pushed into a lock. One of Angela’s needles rips into his flesh again. He barely notices.
Angela gets up and kisses him hard on the mouth. The smell of his come is much stronger than her perfume. “We’re going to do this again,” she says in a whisper. “At my house, though. Remember: you owe me.”
The front door opens and closes. “I’m back,” his wife calls. They hear her drop her bag onto the floor. Her footsteps approach the living room.
Angela busies herself with the cuffs of his trousers again. It’s as though nothing has happened. He stitches monotony across his face and turns to watch the now-opening living room door. Inside, he is consumed by the same mix of fear and desire with which he orgasmed. He smiles for the new arrival, wondering what deliciously twisted game he has gotten himself into.