“What time will you be home tonight?” He can hear the tension behind her words. He’s been late home most nights for more than a month. After a week, he could see that it was trying her patience. After three weeks, she’d asked him if he was having an affair, braced him across the breakfast table on one of those rare occasions they’d managed to sat down to eat together.
He wasn’t cheating on her, though. He didn’t have the energy to think about being unfaithful, let alone perform the actual deed. He wasn’t even masturbating. No, his work is incessant, draining him for twelve or fourteen hours a day, a mere ten if he is fortunate. He can’t recall the last time he’s even thought about sex. Diana had tried inspiring his interest, on both sides of her breakfast fidelity challenge, but his responses had been perfunctory at best, and Diana had fortunately had the good taste not to press the matter and humiliate them both.
He checks his wristwatch. “I’ll be home for seven.”
“You promised that last night.”
He closes his eyes. “I know I did. I really will be home for seven tonight, though.”
There’s a heavy silence. “You’d better be. I’m going to a lot of trouble for dinner.”
“I’ll be there on time. I promise.”
“I hope so.”
“Love you.” She doesn’t return the sentiment. Instead, he only hears the click as she replaces the handset on the cradle.
He closes his eyes again and sighs.
The drive home is better than usual. The road flirts with gridlock, but the traffic keeps moving. He finds that perpetual motion, even when it’s little more than a crawl, is far less exhausting than the stop-start alternative. When he pulls onto the driveway, it’s five after seven, and he still has a residual amount of bounce in his gait as he approaches the front door. He considers that a victory.
“I’m home,” he calls from the hallway. He drops his briefcase on the floor and hangs his jacket from the tall coat stand. He listens for the telltale sounds of pots and plates from the kitchen. There’s no aroma of food cooking either.
“In here.” Her voice comes from the dining room. He begins to loosen his tie as he walks to the door. It swings open silently on its brass hinges. He stares, his fingers still locked about the knot.
“Hello, darling,” Diana says.
She’s lying on her back across the dining table. She’s dressed in black lingerie: brassiere, panties, sheer nylon stockings with wide bands of lace at the top. The soles of her black stiletto heels are pressed down against the polished wood. He sees that the brassieres cups aren’t full, that they’re only demi cups, and that much of her breasts are therefore revealed to his gaze. Her perfectly round nipples are a deep pink, their peaks already drawn upwards by excitement.
Diana turns her head to look at him. Her eyes glitter.
“I’m dinner tonight,” she breathes. “So don’t let me get cold before you start feasting.”
He realises that he has an erection, the first genuine hard-on he’s had in weeks. He walks quickly to the foot of the table, so that he’s looking up the length of her body. She looks back at him, her gaze relentless, demanding, imploring.
He watches her as he hooks his fingers into the waistband of her panties. She presses down with her feet to assist him, and he draws the flimsy material down her legs, slowly but irresistibly. He sees that her mound is completely hairless, that it has been waxed bare. The soft, plump skin gleams with moisturiser. Now he hooks his fingers around her calves and draws her across the highly polished wood, until her bottom is at the edge of the table. He squats down on his haunches, and as he does so, his gaze transfers from her face to her naked sex. Her labia are already parting with her desire, the normally shy inner folds presenting themselves to be sampled.
He kisses the inside of her calves, first one, then the other, enjoying the static bristle of the nylon against his face. He works his way upwards, past her knees, onto her inner thighs. He can feel her trembling already. He kisses a path across the lacy bands and onto the warmth of her bare thighs. He runs his hands up and down the slender limbs as he kisses higher, higher. He can smell the musk of her excitement now, and it makes his cock even harder.
As he reaches her sex, he looks up her body and sees her watching him intently.
“Oh, please!” she whispers. “Please, please, please!”
His tongue lashes out, dragging a lecherous path across her swollen labia, along her cleft, already moistened by her lust. Diana gasps and her head falls back, hitting the table with a dull thud. Overcome with greed for the viscous taste of her desire, he slips his hands beneath her naked buttocks, cradling her like a bowl as he presses his tongue as deeply inside her as he possibly can. He can’t remember ever wishing before that his tongue were longer and wider.
He withdraws, his tongue assailing her full clitoris as he slips two fingers inside her, curling them against the front wall of her cunt until he finds the raised knurl that nestles there. The tip of his tongue flickers against her clit as he fingers her, and when she comes, her buries his tongue inside her once more so that he can feel the velvet walls quivering. She has barely begun to recover when he starts to lick her again. He knows that her clitoris can be hypersensitive for a few minutes after she orgasms, yet he attacks her with an intensity that borders on the sadistic. She reaches for his head, tries to entwine her fingers in his hair and pull his mouth away from her, but he seizes her wrists, grips them hard and forces them down on to the varnished tabletop. He holds her there, helpless, and then he licks her and licks her until she writhes and screams with a pleasure that is overwhelming.
Quickly, his mouth and his chin shining with her lust, he gets to his feet and begins to undress. He is naked in no time. He moves back between her thighs and brings the swollen, burnished head of his cock against her sex. He half-expects to hear his flesh sizzle against her copious moistness.
“Fuck me,” she groans.
He thrusts his way inside her, his usual desire to be subtle and teasing with his entry forsaken. He is desperate to be engulfed by her, to feel his cock cosseted within her oiled silk, to be sheathed by her ephemeral strength. He fucks her with a passionate fury he hasn’t felt in an age, even though he knows that this pace means that it will be over in minutes. The knowledge of her two orgasms comforts him.
He reaches down for her ankles, raises her legs high so that they rest against his shoulders. Then he reaches for her full arse once more, cradling it as he thrusts into her wetness, watching her breasts bounce deliciously within their semi-cradles, watching her glittering eyes, the tension and the resentment washed away by her bliss.
“Let me feel you,” she cries out.
He spills himself into the eye of her climax, hot and fervent and guiltless. Then, even as they’re still both trembling from their orgasms, he slips out of her, picks her up from the table and carries her through to the sitting room. He gently lays her on the thick rug in front of the fireplace and then stretches out beside her.
“How was dinner?” she asks rather breathlessly.
“Delicious.” He looks into her eyes. “But if you have any, I think I could manage seconds.”
She strokes his face and smiles wantonly. “Don’t eat too much of the main, darling. I want you to leave some room for your dessert.”
My thanks to the lovely Dara for her most generous indulgence….