I cut the lemon in half, cut off the ends, cut uneven slices, choose the thinnest slice, and plop it in my glass of Capital Gin Pink Lady, my fourth of the night. A must for open-minded women with an affinity for diversity in our accomplishments. Women like me. There are five cubes left in the trays: I can’t be bothered to fill them up. I crack out two icebergs, float them in my gin with a dash, and swallow half the glass, smacking my lips at the sublime essence of floral hibiscus, earthy thyme grapefruit zest, vanilla from Madagascar. Tipsy, merry, drinking to still my nerves, I finish my drink and pad up the spiral staircase round-and-round-and-round the glitterball chandelier – until I reach my closet.
I’m trapped in a loveless marriage, a marriage where I’ve become subservient to him, in return for treats. I fancy a treat tonight, fancy my chances with him, fancy myself in the dresser mirror. Not bad, considering I bore children, not bad at all. I spray liberal squirts of expensive scent, Baccarat Rouge 540, behind my ears, and apply a fresh smear of cheap lippy from the market.
He summons me from the master bathroom, ‘Come here, Harriet-Jacqui!’
I creep into our aquatic playroom. The bath is the essence of luxury, big enough for two of us, finished in white marble, authentic brass taps, next to full-length windows that overlook the grounds. I open them to let out steam. Eager to share his bath, I pad over the polished wooden floorboards in my stockinged feet, past his favourite velvet red chair, where he dries off his legs, cock and balls, to fuck him.
He sighs contentedly as I stand at the end of the bath, massaging his shoulders with my fleshy fingers. I press my naked breasts and soft belly to his bare back. He reclines, spreading his legs wide apart, his knees hugging the rim of the bath. He’s partly submerged in foam, frothy water, watching a dirty porn video. I’m not particularly amused.
‘Watching the girls fuck are we? What’s the matter with me? Or am I not allowed to ask?’
I push the palms of my hands as far as his barrel chest tweaking his tiny red nipples. He reaches for me drawing my hurt face close to his. I look beautiful hurt: my lips pursed, poker-faced, fire in my eyes, my enchanting widow’s peak frowning beneath my shocking mane of flouncy blonde hair. I’m blushing hard: a sure-fire sign that I’m feeling horny, sensual, tonight, left out. He takes my hands in his, guiding me, rubbing me, all over his lean, muscular torso, permitting me to toy with his shallow cratered navel. If only he’d treat me with respect, like a woman, less like his dumb blonde Barbie doll.
I slide my fingers over his wet belly and scratch his proud flesh with my uncut fingernails. I tenderly caress his genitals. He sighs in blissful surrender to my feminine persuasive charms. I remove my hand, wipe his cum on my thigh, and go to the far end of the bath, sideways on so he can enjoy my stunning figure. His jaw falls. I have this incredible effect on him when I strip off my lingerie: my sexiest sheer see-through black suspender belt, and lace stockings. Pouting my lips for him, I unclip my stockings from my suspender belt, peel them off, then take off my suspender belt. No point in getting it all wet. For a moment, I stand at the end of the bath staring with my little girl lost eyes, relaxed, resting one hand on my hips, stroking my thigh, jutting out my big breasts, flashing him the divine curvature of my smooth rump, my subtle tease of curly hair. I clamber into the bath. The water is perfect for sex: not too hot, not too cold. Perfect. I run my fingers over his lips, slipping them inside his mouth, intimately seducing him.
‘Want to fuck you, ’ I growl, half-pissed.
‘Sit on my cock.’
I nestle on my man’s cock, making myself comfortable, loving the sensation of his strong arm wrapped tightly round my belly, his coarse hand gently kneading my doughy, pliant breasts as I playfully splash my tummy with the warm, soapy, sudsy water, and feed him deep inside me. I wiggle my bottom to keep him hard. He places his hands on my belly. Smouldering, I grind my arse into my man’s lap, flaunting myself, clenching his cock with my birth muscle, taunting him with my rudest dare: ‘Tell me how tight it feels, won’t you?’
‘Slow down, Harriet,’ he pleads, weakly, behind my tensed back.
Frustrated, I slip my bull’s pizzle out of me, let him take a breather, and lean on his thigh. His hands knead my breasts. Highly aroused, I lift my bum, feel in-between my thighs and slide my man’s rigid tarse inside me. His hand slips down my belly.
I come all over my stud, twisting, screwing, swiving him, baring my teeth, snarling, scratching, pressing my breasts in his chest, writhing in ecstasy, as he comes inside me. Freed, subdued, I sink into the tepid broth, calming in unison with my man, easing, easing. Seeing the hungry look on my face, he eases his cock out of my cunt, lets go of my breasts, and pleads, ‘Please, Harriet, I’ve had enough.’
‘Bath then bed!’ I murmur, climbing over his face, sinking my cunt lightly over his mouth, so he can thrill as I grab hold of his flaccid cock and suck it into my mouth, down my throat, gagging as he hardens inside me. As soon as he is erect, I climb out of the bath, dripping wet and panting, take his hand in mine as if he is my naughty little boy, and lead him to the bed.
He fucks me deep, fucks me penetratively, mounts me on all fours, grasping at my pendulous breasts as I scream and swear and cry and cream and squirt and piss, all over his spurting cock.
‘Bath then bed,’ I always say, ‘If you want a wet, dreamful, and unforgettable night with me!’
