Martin Blakewell had been fucking his cleaner, Jenna Havlicek, for ten whole minutes, before his wife had come home. By his word, his osteoporosis was still giving him grief, so much so that it called caused his and his wife, Amelia’s, recent holiday to Crete to be cut short, much to her very brilliantly managed disappointment, given that it was the first time in months that the two of them had managed to navigate a conversation with both subjects in the same room, that wasn’t about the dog, the kids, or the dodgy looking couple who’d moved into number 53.
Calling up to her husband, Amelia slumped down three Waitrose bags next to the ornately rusted Aga, before pouring herself a glass of Chablis and turning on the Hi-Fi system. It was while flicking through the small cluster of letters, left haphazardly across the parquet floor of the hallway (by their Jack Russell, Bertie), that she heard the thuds. Something upstairs was banging. Louder, and louder each time.
Poised and concerned, she tiptoed up the carpeted staircase cautiously, the oversized wine glass in her dainty, wrinkled hand, each step closer to the sound, hoping that she wasn’t in fact walking into danger. There were rumours that the couple at 53 had, as Beth Ditton next door called it, ‘done time’— burglary was all Fullerton Mews needed, to add to the growing list of issues closing in on the once affluent area.
Reaching the landing, she could hear something accenting each of the bangs and thuds. Moans. Breathy, hoarse, near-panicked moans of a woman, sounding on cue as something thudded into something else. Suddenly, a loud thwack of skin against skin frightened her, causing her to freeze, her glass falling to the beige furze of carpet below, its fuzzy down greying with fermented grapes. She held her breath, frozen to the spot, fearing that she’d been heard. Nothing— the sounds continued.
Following the sound of the commotion to her bedroom door, she crept towards the large, teak door frame, and leaning on the ornate, brass handle, cracked the door by a few centimeters, and gasped. Covering the narrow hole of her mouth with her hand in shock, her pupils dilated with sheer dismay. There he was, her husband of twenty-two years. His tan rear end, sandwiched between the long, dainty legs of their cleaner, her dusty, black, ballerina flats dangling, while being fucked deep into the headboard of a martial bed to which she didn’t belong. Back and forth Martin thrust into her narrow pussy, holding her slender torso like a limp ragdoll, as he transferred the force of his greedy cock into her greedier still, fanny. Waves of shock trailed across Amelia’s entire being, so much so that her vision became speckled with white dots, her limbs becoming limp, her eyes glazing over as she, for the first time, saw her marriage in tatters.
“You like being my wife, do you?” Martin barked at the young girl, holding her ponytail in a firm grip, as she nodded
“Yes, Mr— Mr. Blakes! Uh— oh fuck. Oh— shit. I like it a lot.”
“I’m gonna load your pussy up, just like you like it. You ready baby?”
“Uh huh— uh— fuck. I love feeling you stretching me! Stretch this sexy teen, wife-pussy.” Amelia listened on, wincing in disgust.
“You cumming? You gonna cum for your sexy— sexy wife?” Jenna asked two minutes later. Amelia felt she’d been watching the spectacle for a lifetime at this point.
“Oh yes, Mrs. Blakewell. I will be cumming. Cumming right into your tiny, tight— ugh fuck!”
Sadistically, Amelia stayed and watched as Martin lay prone between Jenna’s thin legs, the two of them kissing passionately in a way that she didn’t know her husband was capable of doing before finally, leaving for the kitchen, while the man she married proceeded to lick his impressive load of semen from the younger, tighter vagina of the woman Amelia herself had saved from homelessness just eight months ago.
Putting on her long, forest green, leather boots, she stepped out into the autumn air and walked aimlessly in a melancholic trance until evening came, bumming a cigarette off a cluster of young mothers at the park, resigning herself to a lone bench, crying until the sun finally disappeared beneath the reservoir.
Later that night, when she’d finally finished removing her make-up and tied her hair into its familiar messy bun, she slid into their marital bed, trying her best to ignore the stains from earlier on to the duvet— stubborn dried lakes of female discharge, cum and sweat that her lazy husband hadn’t even tried to hide. Reaching in to kiss her, Martin paused.
“Why do you smell like cigarettes,” he quizzed, confused. Amelia, looked straight ahead at the mounted television at the end of the room, in a trance. On the screen, a chef, complete with pristine chef whites and a long hat, was shuffling his frying pan with a dexterity that made the audience applaud politely.
“How’s your osteoporosis? Had any problems today?”.
***
Four weeks went by before Martin’s affair resumed, undoubtedly a result of his growing paranoia that his wife had clocked onto his misdeeds. Yet, in that month, full of pitiful crying in the family SUV while parked in abandoned carparks on the edge of town, and planning suicide notes with drunken scrawls, the strangest thing happened to Amelia Blakewell. Something within her psyche became altered, or at least open to arousal— an arousal which was no doubt in her own mind, perverted, and sick and indicated something bad had happened to her at some point in the past, and yet turned her on more than her husband had at his own hand, in all their years of marriage.
The first day she noticed it, was during a conference call at work. Listening to fast-talking investors from Japan, she had nearly zoned out of the three-hour conversation, angrily daydreaming about the adulterous sight seen a month earlier, before noticing a peculiar and warm wetness in her crotch below. It was only once she had excused herself, rushed to the toilet, and checked her gusset that she realised that it was not a post-pregnancy bladder giving up on her, but instead, a translucent trail of sexual excitement, evidenced as sticky, creamy white on the black fabric.
For the first time in her life, she sat in the cubicle of the staff toilet, her simple, plain, black knickers around her ankles, masturbating furiously with two fingers, penetrating herself slowly as she imagined the sight of Jenna’s pussy after Martin had had his wicked way with her, anger, disgust, jealousy and desire fuelling her with every poke of her fervent slit. When she finally orgasmed, she licked her fingers in ecstasy, savouring her own musk and taste before continuing again and again, until realising that she’d been away from the meeting for the best of an hour.
When she finally returned, Amelia rubbed her lower stomach in the direction of her boss, Graham.
“I think I’m gonna work from home for the rest of the day,” she mouthed weakly, wincing, feigning an imaginary illness. She looked him straight in the eye— a level of intimacy that she knew he could simply not handle. “Lady problems.”
His eyes widened in awkward shock, patting the sweat,y bald patch that shone beneath the strip lighting above like a dense egg. Of course, he asked no questions. Full of excitement, Amelia drove around the city, before finding a secluded spot beneath a flyover, parking up, and sitting in the rear leather seats of the SUV, peeled away her soaked knickers from her warm hind flesh, cautiously holding them to her nose, as she orgasmed furiously into the frigid night.
***
Over the following months, Amelia had done everything to both distance herself from her adulterous, frankly disappointing husband of two and a bit decades, and to encourage his adultery with their teenage cleaner. There was no doubt to her that a war was being waged by her rational and irrational mind, but the reward of infinite orgasms was worth the psychological battle.
Halfway through month two, she had taken to sleeping in the spare bedroom, not only so she could spy on her husband as he had his pre-sleep wank session, his burner phone gleaming on the bedside table as he spoke with his mistress via a Bluetooth headset, his actual wife watching on as his previously unremarkable penis would rise to an instant erection, would be messaged for less than five minutes and then would erupt an impressive blast of semen across the room.
She had encouraged Jenna to work longer shifts into the evening, in the hope that she would either have to stay the night (“You can sleep on the sofa. Oh it’s no bother— you live so far away and I’ve had a drink, so I can’t drop you home. What a shame…”). It only worked the one time— Martin tearing himself away from his marital bed to meet with Jenna in the conservatory downstairs, his wife watching on from the top of the stairs in complete darkness as she synchronised the bobbing of teenage lips on middle-aged cock, with the covert filling of her needy fanny with a three-figure dildo.
The most arousing catalyst however was something out of Amelia’s control completely: the weather. When spring finally came on by, the days and weeks into April were often unbearable and sure enough to her teenage hormones and sexual appeal, Jenna began turning up in fewer and fewer clothes. The first time Amelia opened the door to Jenna in what was essentially a bra and boy shorts, her face couldn’t hide the shock— a preliminary reaction rooted in her own formative years of suppression and shame.
“I can go home and change— honest Mrs. Blakes, it’s no problem,” Jenna reassured, as she leaned over on all fours, tending to a stubborn stain on the kitchen floor with a bucket of warm water and sponge. There and then, Amelia’s eyes were fixed on the teenage girl’s rear end; the peach-like bulge of her arse cheeks as they bolstered the thin fabric of her shorts. The thick taco-like shape of her plump labia, puffed vertically in a teasing outline. The longer she stared at Jenna working away, the wetter Amelia herself got, before excusing herself to the downstairs toilet, for a quick and scarily-quick wank over what she had seen.
The warmer the subsequent weeks got, the hornier Amelia got— the hornier Martin got, and now that he was working from home once again, Amelia would deliberately send herself on any amount of fake errands, leaving the two together, to do what they did best while she parked up somewhere desolate, imagining the scene while thudding herself furiously.
Martin himself, inundated with sexual desire from both women, couldn’t believe his luck. He’d gone from a year ago, emailing dubious-sounding women on personals websites, in the hope of being able to lick their stinky feet in exchange for cash, to getting teenage pussy all day long, and his wife, in a renewed, hard-to-believe state of constant arousal which he himself had never known possible for her to have.
In no time at all, Amelia’s favourite thing became sucking her husband after he’d fucked Jenna. Martin for all intents and purposes was not a sensible man, which usually, in the case of political alliances and finding the right food for the dog, was a pain in the arse.
In this case, however, it meant that he had forgone all contraception with the girl, and so when his darling wife, half drunk on premium white wine and tweaking from having edged herself for two hours straight, would wander in their bedroom to suck his sleepy cock, she could savour, lick and swallow all of Jenna’s lovely pussy juices right from the veiny, virile cock that had made Jenna into the insatiable nymph which he was so clearly obsessed with.
When, on the sixteenth of May, Martin had asked his wife if she was OK with him going away on a business trip to Havering, Amelia, knowing better, and ultimately knowing her darling husband better than himself, sensed this to be a ruse— hopefully, one that resulted in several creampies for the teen cleaner. Sure enough, she had no reservations and encouraged it, until the details transpired.
“When will you be back then,” Amelia grinned, pouring herself a glass of wine, before dropping two round pieces of ice inside her glass. Martin shrugged.
“Don’t know,” he said nonchalantly.
“Oh,” Amelia said. “So you don’t know how long you will be there for?” quizzed his wife.
“Hmm. About a week. I’m not sure yet.” There was stress— an annoyance in his voice, not usually associated with his affair, even when best concealed.
‘A week?!” Amelia parked her wine glass. “And who are you— erm going with?”
“I told you. Work. It’s a work conference. I told you last week, no?”
Amelia, pretending to be satisfied, left for the garden, killing two bottles of wine all evening, listening to soul records as she let the sun beam down on her nipples beneath the semi-exposing fabric of her bathing suit. That night she lay away in bed, sensing a change on the horizon, praying under her breath for the first time in a decade to a God she knew was not there.
***
It was five months later, and with Christmas approaching as quickly as it did each year, the adverts, the shopping, and the stress were inescapable. Yet, in a strange way, Amelia was looking forward to it for the first time in years. Handing the front of the steel shopping trolley, she guided it towards her SUV in the colossal carpark, Jenna pushing it at the back, her baby bump brushing the plastic rim.
“Hey Mrs. Blakes,” Jenna began, sniggering to herself. “How funny, right, was the cashier back there?”
“What, the one that thought you were my daughter?” Amelia asked, unlocking the car with the silver-lined fob. “She was hilarious. Endearing, and a little dim, but overall hilarious”.
“Hilarious. Yeah.” The two of them stopped at the boot of the car, unloading an afternoon’s worth of shopping at John Lewis— a baby cot, a dozen outfits in all their colours and designer shapes, and the rest of the miscellany which Amelia had assured was of no concern or trouble for the Blakewells to finance, for the impending baby.
Hobbling round to the passenger’s side, Jenna sat herself in slowly, wincing as she shifted her legs into the raised environment of the state-of-the-art car. Amelia slammed her door shut, and sighed.
“Right, I—” Amelia started. Jenna interrupted her.
“Mrs. Blakes— thank you. You know, for everything.” Amelia nodded. “Like, most other women— wives, would have thrown me out, or kicked my arse for… you know. Everything that happened.”
“Honestly, sweetie,” Amelia began, pushing the ignition until the car roared like an antagonised felid. “It’s fine. It’s totally fine. Besides, you’re like family now”. Jenna smiled earnestly, holding her stomach as Amelia reversed carefully and cautiously from her parking space. Their silence was broken as Amelia halted at the traffic lights.
“Did he—” Amelia started, before blushing to herself. “This morning. Did Martin leave any—” Jenna raised her head in an attempt to decipher the awkward babble.
“Did me and Martin…?”
“Yeah, this morning. I could have sworn I heard… did he finish? Finish. Inside of you, I mean?” Slowly Jenna nodded, biting her lip, looking towards her companion’s face fixed on the road ahead. Amelia released a gasp, a lot louder than planned.
“Well, that’s just marvellous. Just lovely. Let’s go and find a nice secluded spot, shall we?” she said, reaching over to Jenna thighs as they parted on the virgin leather of the car seat, a bare, sticky slit drooling a load of semen from earlier that same, very morning.
