After I got home from Phil’s, I dived into the shower. I had his spunk dripping down my leg; God, if hubbie Ron ever saw that! I took the rose off the shower lead, smothered the end of the pipe with liquid soap and gently pushed it inside my fanny. I left the water running for a few minutes, flushing my fanny clean, and then pulled the hose out. I felt empty again, not nice ‘après dick’ empty, just empty.
Thoroughly cleansed, with no traces of spunk anywhere and no smell of man discernible, I turned the shower off and patted myself dry with a towel. I stood in the bedroom looking at the reflection of myself in the mirror. My fanny still looked a little flushed, but by the time Ron saw it, it would have calmed down. I would, of course, shag Ron tonight. My rule, if ever I shagged someone, was I always shagged hubby on the same day; he needed to be the last person to shag me before I went to sleep.
The doorbell chimed. Oh, bother! I pulled my dressing gown on and tied it tight; I had no intention of flashing whoever was at the door. Down the stairs, I opened the door. It was Phil’s wife, Greta, from next door.
“Oh, hello, Greta,” I smiled. “Everything all right?”
“May I come in?”
“Yes, you’ll have to excuse me; I was just in the shower. Would you like a cup of tea?”
“Yes, that would be nice. Thank you.”
She walked past me and headed to the kitchen. I shut the front door and followed. In the kitchen I put the kettle on to boil and took two clean mugs out of the cupboard, a tea bag in each one, and milk from the fridge. I only use goat’s milk; I doubt that she would notice; few people do, so that is what she was getting.
I made the tea and handed her a mug. “Let’s sit in the lounge,” I said.
She sat in the single armchair; I sat on the sofa opposite. Greta was wearing her uniform; I guessed that she had more or less come straight from work. I wondered what Phil was doing; had she even gone home first? I wasn’t worried; there was no way that she had been home when I had been there with her husband. For a start, her car had been nowhere to be seen when I went around there.
She took a sip of her tea and then placed it on the side table beside her.
“I knew, you see,” she said, “that something was happening, that something was going on. You know, the smell of a woman’s perfume, an expensive perfume, a distinctive perfume.”
Okay, so now I was getting a little worried. “Oh?” I replied. I wasn’t going to dig a hole to fall into.
“Yes, so today, when I went to work, having already arranged for a day off, I parked just around the corner, my car hidden, but from where I could watch the house.”
“Well, all you would have seen was me popping round for a coffee; no woman came around yours while I was there.”
“No, indeed not, no other woman.” She passed me her phone; there was a video playing.
“So, I walked up to the house and looked through the window; on there is what I saw,” she said.
“My arse bouncing up and down on your husband’s lap.”
“Quite. You see, I do recognise your perfume, Estée Lauder Youth Dew. Quite heady and distinctive. Odd that I often smelt it in my bedroom. Only, perhaps, not so odd. How long have you been fucking my husband?”
“A couple of weeks.” Well, let’s minimise the damage; I wasn’t going to tell her it had been for some months.
“I think it is longer than that. I first noticed the perfume several months ago. So, it is more than a couple of weeks.”
I didn’t say anything; I had been caught out and filmed.
“The question is, the big question is, Mica, what am I going to do about it? Should I send your husband, Ron, a copy of the video? I do have an emergency burner PAYG phone I could use; he wouldn’t know who sent it to him.”
“Yes, you could do that. What do I have to do to persuade you not to do that?”
“Let me see. You have heard the phrase, what is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander.”
Yes, I had, but I could not see how geese were relevant. “Yes.”
“Turn it around; what is sauce for the gander is sauce for the goose. Phil is the gander; I am the goose. He has had his sauce.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing; she wasn’t seriously suggesting I let her shag my Ron? “You want my Ron as a quid pro quo?” I said, “Ron, to make up for me shagging your Phil?”
“God, no,” she said, a smile crossing her face.
“I don’t understand,” I said, truly confused.
“I want what Phil had.”
“I don’t understand,” I said, still confused.
“He had you. That is what I want.”
I looked at her utterly confused; I could not work out what she was getting at.
“You want me? But how?”
“I fuck Phil as duty; it is what a wife does to keep her man, keep him paying most of the bills, and stop him straying. I obviously don’t do a good enough job. But I don’t enjoy fucking men. I prefer women. That is where my pleasure is; I don’t want your husband. I want you. And as you said, you are just out of the shower. I hope that you washed off his smell.”
I was dumbfounded, seriously. I had been with a few girls in the past, mostly when I had been at uni, but not since I was married. It wasn’t something I hankered for; it had just happened, I had moved on, and I realised I preferred men’s dicks to girls’ fannies.
“I don’t know what to say,” and I didn’t.
“I expect you to say that we should go upstairs.”
“Upstairs?”
“Yes, to your bedroom. We have a few hours before your Ron is due home; I expect that you can show me the pleasure I crave in that time.”
“Good God. Are you saying that if I take you to my bed this afternoon, you will let my transgression with Phil pass? That you won’t tell Ron?”
“No. I am not talking about a one-off, Mica. We shall start an affair. Assuming that you put your heart and soul into it, of course. I want more than cursory lip service; I want proper service from your lips. And not just today.”
I had no choice. I knew that. I stood up and undid the tie on my dressing gown and let it fall open. She wouldn’t see my boobs, but she would see my undoubtedly still flushed fanny. She looked, she smiled, and she even licked her lips.
“Shall we go up?” I asked as I walked out of the lounge. I dropped the latch on the front door as I passed; didn’t want anyone coming in unannounced, that was for sure.
As I climbed the stairs, I eased my dressing gown off. Greta would see my buttocks sliding against each other; she would see the lips of my sex between my thighs. All I could hope for was that she found me enticing. I wasn’t sure if I could be the woman that she wanted, but I would have to try; I couldn’t let her tell Ron about Phil.
In my bedroom I pulled back the bedcover, and as I turned back, Greta was there, standing inside the bedroom. I took a deep breath and walked over to her. I put my hands gently on her face and touched my lips to hers. She shivered, hopefully in anticipation. My right hand cupped her left breast through her clothes. Her breast was full, heaving as her breaths deepened.
I put my hands behind her back and undid the catch at the top of her uniform dress and then lowered the zip. Her dress gaped; I slid it over her shoulders and let it fall to her feet. Her bra and knickers were white lace, not simply functional but lingerie to arouse a lover. Perhaps this moment had been planned, orchestrated. I knew at that moment I was dealing with a schemer, a planner, and that I needed to be careful, to keep my wits about me.
I pressed my lips harder against hers, my tongue seeking hers, sliding into the hot cavern of her mouth. My hands behind her back, seeking the bra catch, undoing it, and letting her breasts hang unsupported. I slipped the straps down her arms and let her bra fall to the floor. I bent my knees and put my mouth over her right breast, kissing the nipple, then sucking and chewing. My hand traced the crease of her sex through her knickers. There was heat she was wanting.
I fell to my knees, my mouth now kissing along the waist hem of her knickers and then blowing along her crease through the lace, my hands on her buttocks. I felt her shiver again; her desire was palpable. I put my fingers inside the waist of her knickers and pulled them down. She was naked, and I was kneeling with my face only an inch from her fanny.
She was not straight out of the shower, as I was. She had an aroma, light perspiration with undertones of urea. I pressed my nose into her crease and slipped up through her fanny folds, my tongue following, cleaning, and tasting. Memories came flooding back of the girls at uni. Sasha, delightfully Middle Eastern and spicy to taste, and Gemma from up north, gutsy, who called a spade a spade.
Greta was different: the aroma, the taste, the shape. I know all us girls are slightly different, but Greta was really different. Most girls I have known, including me, have all or most of our small labia ‘tucked’ inside, just presenting mostly as a crease. A front bottom, as it is euphemistically referred to. Not Greta; her lips hung outside like a bunch of bananas. I doubted that she could present a camel toe.
My tongue was getting lost in the folds, sliding between her fanny lips that behaved almost like the lips around her mouth; I really was kissing her fanny. I found her nubbin, nipped it with my teeth, and then pulled on it, tugging and then letting go. I lapped it with my tongue as my fingers circled her entrance; hidden between her oversized fourchette and labia, it pulled my fingers in like a whirlpool.
I could hear her gasps and sighs; groans of pleasure rolled down her body to my ears. It seems I was doing something right. I guessed I would be; I mean, you don’t exactly forget these things. I hadn’t forgotten Sasha and how her body arched backwards as I made her climax or Gemma, who shrieked and screamed; no, not forgotten, just pushed to the back of my mind.
I pushed in, two fingers sliding along her soaking wet love tunnel, my fingernails finding bumps and ridges and her one hard lump in particular. Her gasps grew louder as I rubbed that, pressed at that little sensitive scar, her fanny walls tightening around my fingers, squeezing them together. I pushed further in and widened my fingers.
Her fanny gaped at its depth and squeezed at its entrance; my fingers felt trapped yet able to wiggle and to move. “Oh, fuck,” she gasped as I widened my fingers, making a scissoring motion inside her. I began to saw my fingers in and out, finger fucking her fanny, pressing my palm hard against her valley on the in-stroke, spare fingers lying along her perineum and over her crinkle. As I withdrew, she gasped; as I pushed in, she gasped. Her lungs were filling, her breasts pushing away from her chest. I nipped her nubbin again and pulled on it.
Her fingers squeezed my head, her throat gurgled, and then she thrust up hard against my hand, squirting as she screamed her orgasm. I licked and swallowed what I could, easing my mouth away, her Kabia glistening with moisture. I moved up her body, kissing each nipple, and then I held her face and pressed my mouth against hers, kissing her flavours into her mouth.
“Oh my god,” she said quietly. “Oh, my fucking god.”
I said nothing; I simply moved to her side and lay down. My own breasts were heaving on my chest, although I hadn’t orgasmed – not since I had shagged her husband Phil earlier that morning. Lady sex is pleasurable, but I do prefer the feel of a dick inside me. I had no doubt that she would be back for more. Would she return the favour, I wondered?
