Britslut’s

Slutty Stories

 

 Mrs Jekyll and Ms Hyde

© Copyright britslut 2006. No re-use allowed without permission.

 

With thanks to Martin for helping me to polish this tale.

Michael’s wife Helen was the soul of respectability. She was 42, with neatly bobbed brown hair and a trim petite figure which she tended to hide in rather loose, sensible clothes. Her face was pretty in a classical English way, her eyes blue and her skin fair with a light freckling. She was first and foremost a housewife and mother, but supplemented their income with her job as a playgroup leader. She had borne him two lovely girls, now both approaching their late teens when they would flee the nest, a nest which she always kept clean and beautifully decorated. She was an excellent cook and an accomplished needleworker.

Michael was a year older than Helen, and had made a career as an architect designing comfortable houses for the middle classes. It gave them enough money to live happily and take two holidays per year, and they did not desire more wealth. Both worshipped in church every week, in that peculiarly Church of England way where one is not quite sure exactly what one believes but definitely believes something. Both were heavily involved in charity work.

They had been married for 21 years – both were virgins when they married. Both enjoyed sex, less often in the last decade, but never talked about it. They didn’t flirt with each other or show physical affection in public. Helen almost never initiated sex but had never refused her husband’s attentions. Her orgasms were like the rest of her life: low-key, without excess, but quietly happy. She had not masturbated since she was married.

Michael too was quietly happy with his lot. In the first years of marriage his sex drive had been higher than Helen’s, but now he had got used to their weekly lovemaking and believed that the grass wasn’t greener on the other side. He wasn’t interested in pornography, did not masturbate, and loved his wife with a deep contented love that was mostly non-sexual.

A new colleague joined Helen’s playgroup team. Her name was Claire, she was 40 and she was loud, extrovert and sexy and dressed in tight clothes and short skirts. Helen pursed her lips and was a bit stand-offish at first, but she soon realised that underneath Claire was a very warm and kind person so she forgave her brashness and they soon became firm friends. She even started laughing at Claire’s rude jokes. Sometimes they met up in town to go shopping and have lunch, and once Helen went on a ‘girls night out’ with her – and enjoyed it, to her mild surprise.

Claire announced that she and her husband were having a party at the end of the month. The theme was ‘Vicars and Tarts’. Helen was a bit sceptical about this, but Claire mentioned some other friends who were going – all of them were respectable enough in Helen’s mind. Michael too was dubious when she told him – he did not like crowded parties with loud music, preferring a quiet meal and chat with a few friends.

‘What are we supposed to wear?’ he said – which is exactly what Helen had asked her friend.

‘Vicars are easy,’ she told him. ‘Just put a bit of cardboard in your shirt collar.’

‘What about you?’

‘There are female vicars, you know.’

‘I don’t think that’s the idea,’ he laughed. ‘But I can’t see you as a tart.’

Normally this would have pleased his wife, but Claire had been working on her. ‘Well, she said I could borrow something of hers. Nothing too daring, of course. I’d feel silly.’

On the day of the party, Michael felt silly enough just with his fake dog-collar. He knew a couple of vicars socially and felt guilty pretending to be one. Helen wore casual clothes, as she was going to change when she got to the party. They arrived early with this in mind. Claire took Helen upstairs and Michael helped Tom, her husband, with putting out drinks and food. Gradually other guests arrived, most of the women opting for shortish skirts, high heels, and low-cut blouses - nothing to shock a real vicar.

Michael was starting to wonder what had happened to his wife when the two women made an entrance which stopped all conversation. He hardly noticed Claire, although she was showing even more bare flesh than usual. He just gawped at Helen, hardly recognising her. The normally prim homemaker looked indeed like a streetwalker of the most blatant kind. She wore a shiny red boob-tube that showed every detail of her small, neat breasts, and a red PVC microskirt which revealed the tops of her fishnet stockings. She teetered on 6-inch heels. Bright red lipstick and black eyeliner adorned her face. Her cheeks were pink, presumably with embarrassment.

There were a couple of muted wolf-whistles. Michael felt an erection growing at the sight of his wife looking so uniquely sexy. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen so much of her naked flesh. She always wore trousers or long skirts. She wore a long nightdress or pyjamas in bed and dressed and undressed in the bathroom. They made love under the duvet with the light off.

He went over to her, proud that she was his wife but also worried that she was embarrassed. He discovered, however, that her flush had another cause.

‘Hiya, reverend,’ she purred at him, ‘Looking for a good time?’ She had obviously decided to act the part as well as look it. Her perfume, something strong and sensuous, assailed his nose.

‘I had to give her a shot of vodka to calm her down,’ Claire said. ‘Seems to have done the trick, though. What do you think?’

Helen rarely drank – a small glass of white wine was enough for her. He couldn’t remember her ever drinking shorts.

‘You look fantastic,’ he said. ‘I hardly recognised you.’

‘You mean I don’t usually look fantastic?’ Her voice had the faintest of slurs in it. Before he could wriggle out of the trap, she put her arm through his and said. ‘Come on, big boy, get the lady a drink.’ The feel of her warm flesh against him made his erection stiffen. The heels made her taller than usual and he felt a hard nipple pressing into his arm. They went into the dining room where the drinks were laid out, and he poured her a glass of white wine. Helen took a mouthful then pressed her lips against his and pushed her tongue out. He opened his lips automatically and she let some of the wine dribble into his mouth. It was such a sexual action that he had a momentary sensation that he was dreaming. This woman could not be his wife!

Still, if it was a dream, he might as well enjoy it. He felt the urge to run his hands over her bare shoulders and arms and then across her pert breasts and naked stomach, ending up clutching her tightly-swathed bum. However Helen had turned away and was flirting – yes, there was no other word for it – with the chap next to her. Michael watched her wiggle her hips and heard her tinkling laugh. He shook his head in disbelief.

Soon he had lost sight of her in the throng, and got embroiled in a four-way discussion, or rather argument, in the kitchen about modern architecture, about which everyone seemed to have strong if ill-informed opinions. His mind was only half on the talk; the other half kept visualising his wife in her tart’s costume, and his erection remained. Eventually he excused himself.

In the lounge he caught sight of Helen – her bright red outfit made her stand out somewhat – and she saw him and gave him a smouldering look which disconcerted him. She crooked her finger and went out into the hallway. He followed. She was halfway up the stairs, unsteady on the high heels. The pale flesh of her thighs above the stocking tops drew his eyes. From this angle, he could see the lower curve of her buttocks, the skirt was that short. He hurried up.

She reached the landing, turned, and gripped his hand, and pulled him urgently into the nearest bedroom. There she twisted round and lurched into his arms, mashing her lips against his in a open-mouthed, tongue-lashing, drenchingly wet snog. Michael could do nothing but respond in like manner. Her hand slid down over his stomach and undid the button of his trousers, then opened his zip and hauled out his cock, now rigid with excitement. Still snogging wildly, she peeled her skirt up to her waist and clumsily fed his cock into her slit. Her husband, as far as he could think at all, was amazed at how wet she was down there. He could feel the edge of her panties against his shaft as he slid easily into her hot depths. She moaned eagerly into his mouth. Giving himself up to the moment, he clutched her buttocks and thrust her against the wall, pumping into her juicy cavity.

Helen wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist and let him pound her, slobbering over his face and grunting sexily every time he plumbed her innards. He could feel her body growing tauter and tauter, and his balls becoming tighter as his orgasm approached rapidly. His rhythm increased until he was sweating with the exertion and the tension. As his climax broke and he spurted hot jets of semen into her, Helen cried out throatily and he felt her muscles squeeze the base of his shaft in sympathy. They both pulsed together. It was a glorious fuck such as they had never experienced before.

As he softened and eventually slipped out, his wife still clung to him. Normally she was concerned to clean up immediately after sex – she disliked the messiness of it. Now she slowly unwound her limbs and sank to her knees, trailing kisses down his shirt. Michael felt her hot mouth close around his flaccid cock – a cock dripping with his sperm and her juices! Helen had never given him oral sex before and he had never felt able to ask her too. The sensation was so novel and erotic that he started to swell immediately and soon was at aching hardness again.

Helen fellated him enthusiastically and inexpertly; but it had the desired effect. He wound his fingers in her hair and felt another orgasm rising in him. Wanting to take control he pulled her up, gathered in his arms and laid her on the high bed, her legs hanging over the edge. She just lay there looking at him with smoky eyes, skirt round her waist and a tiny black G-string pulled to one side to expose her neat pubic bush, now sodden and matted. He stood between her spread thighs and pushed his cock into her hot juice-filled slit, grasping her hips to pull her onto him. She gripped the quilt in her fists and watched him open-mouthed as he pumped into her with renewed vigour, loud slurping noises coming from her vagina. Gradually her eyes closed as she surrendered to her body’s sensations, and soon she shook and mewled in the throes of another orgasm.

Her vagina was slick and looser than before and Michael took quite a time, pumping fiercely into his wife’s petite and pliant body, before his climax overwhelmed him and he spurted almost painfully into her. He was fairly certain, through his ecstatic spasms, that she climaxed at the same time. Totally spent, he withdrew and flopped on the bed next to her and was almost instantly asleep.

He woke after an unknown time, stiff and aching. His cock was coated with dried fluids and felt cold. He got up, did up his trousers and splashed water on his face in the bathroom, then went downstairs in search of Helen. The party was fizzling out, just a few people sitting around chatting. His wife was talking to Claire. She was wearing her normal clothes again, the ones she had arrived in.

‘Oh, there you are,’ she said, calmly. ‘Shall we go home? We can get a lift if we go now.’

They said their thanks and goodbyes as if nothing untoward had happened – but did he catch Claire give his wife a wink as they parted? Another couple who lived nearby gave them a lift home, and once in the house Helen said she was very tired and went up to the bathroom. Michael sat in the lounge wondering if it had all been a dream. No, his cock felt well-used and crusted with semen. It was decades since he had come twice in a night – in fact he hadn’t thought he was still capable of it. But Helen had been like a wild beast … completely out of character. But by no means unpleasant … Eventually he went upstairs, washed and put his pyjamas on and slipped into bed. His wife, in her long nightdress, was fast asleep. He snuggled up against her back and fell asleep too.

In the morning she was up and breakfasted before him, doing a few chores before church. Everything was utterly normal. Had they really done the things he remembered so vividly? His cock twitched. He put his arms around her in the kitchen, telling her he loved her, and she responded with a quick kiss on the cheek and a remark about the parish committee meeting. The old Helen was back with a vengeance, he thought.

In the car, driving to church, he said nervously, ‘Helen, about last night …’

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ she said, quietly and firmly but not unkindly. There was almost a sadness in her voice. Was she ashamed of her behaviour? He didn’t press the point, for he knew she would get cross. The matter was dropped and remained dropped.

By the next weekend, Michael had decided that Helen’s behaviour at the party was a one-off aberration which would not be repeated. She had been so utterly normal since. On Saturday Claire phoned and she spent quite a long time talking, then said to him. ‘Are we doing anything tonight? Claire wants to go and see a film - some romantic girlie thing. You’d hate it. I probably will too, but is it OK if I go?’

Michael had been planning to watch a programme on architecture on Channel 4, so he said it was fine. He was tempted to warn his wife not to let Claire lead her into bad ways again, but thought better of it. She left at about 7 to catch the bus into town, giving him a chastely loving kiss.

A couple of hours later, close to the end of his documentary, he got a text message on his mobile. It was from Helen, naming a pub in a less salubrious part of the town and telling him - not asking him - to meet her there in 20 minutes. Michael was a bit concerned in case something had happened, so he just replied OK and switched the TV off, put his shoes on and got in the car. Parking was not easy on a Saturday night and it was exactly 20 minutes before he walked in the door of the pub, wondering what he would find.

It was smoky and fairly crowded, and he looked around for Helen. Eventually he spotted her sitting on a stool at one end of the bar, and did a double-take. She was dressed as a tart again! A very low-cut stretchy top that made the most of what cleavage she had, and a tight red skirt to mid-thigh with slits up each side. Her hair was done up on top of her head. She was holding a shot glass and chatting animatedly to a young man standing at the bar, who looked like most of his attention was on her breasts and not her voice.

Michael paused before going over to her. His cock began to swell. So that was her game, was it? She’d decided that she liked being a tart and the terrific sex that it inspired, and wanted to do it again. Well, he was up for it! He would play along. He pushed his way to the bar and stood in the space vacated by the young man who had now got his drinks.

‘Hi,’ he said, ‘Do you come here often?’ It was corny but so was her costume.

‘Hi yourself,’ she said, coolly. The lipstick and eyeliner were back in force. He had to admit that she looked very attractive - very sexy, in fact.

‘Can I get you a drink?’ Michael had never chatted up a woman in a bar but he had seen films.

‘Vodka and orange, please. I like a generous man.’

He didn’t even know she liked vodka and orange. Maybe she didn’t. He ordered her drink, and a half of beer for himself. Best to keep sober, especially as he was driving. He pulled up another stool and sat facing her, wondering how to continue. His eyes wandered over her body, much of which was on display. Her legs were bare, smooth and lightly tanned. He wondered if she had used a fake tan. Whatever, they were excellent legs, slim and shapely. He imagined running his tongue up from her ankle to the top of her thigh.

‘You’ve got beautiful legs,’ he said, ‘In fact you’re looking beautiful all over.’

‘You’re not so bad looking yourself,’ she responded. She uncrossed her legs and hooked her heels onto the stool so that her knees, slightly parted, pointed at him. Michael stared up her skirt. He was fairly sure that he could see her pubic hair in the shadow. His wife had gone to a pub, alone, without wearing panties! Any man in the room could have seen her crotch if they had been in the right position! His cock throbbed.

‘I’m available. You could take me round the back for a quickie,’ Helen said. ‘It wouldn’t cost you a lot.’

She was still in tart mode! He gulped. ‘How much?’

‘Twenty quid. You can give me the money now.’ Her voice trembled a little, whether with nerves or suppressed passion was not clear.

Michael got out his wallet and gave her a twenty-pound note, without trying not to be seen. She took it, stuffed it down her cleavage, tossed back her drink in one and slid off the stool.

‘Come on, then, let’s go.’ She hooked her arm in his and steered him out of the pub, several pairs of eyes following them with envy or disapproval. Helen pulled him down an alleyway. It was fairly dark and not too savoury, and only yards from the busy high street. Suddenly she grabbed his head and started to snog him passionately, then slid her hands down his front to undo his trousers. His cock sprang out; his tart-wife lifted one thigh and hooked it over his hip and fed his cock into her slit, which was once again very wet and boiling hot. Indeed, she had been naked under the miniskirt. She grabbed his buttocks, hard, and pulled him into her, kissing furiously all the while.

They fucked up against the wall, grunting loudly. Michael was vaguely conscious of people passing the end of the alleyway, but he didn’t really care. What her internal muscles were doing to his cock, as she embarked on a knee-trembling orgasm, was the main focus of his attention. He cupped her pert ass, lifted her up so that she could wrap both legs around him, and pumped into her, scraping her back against the wall. Her mouth slipped off his and she panted for breath against his ear. His pounding reached a peak and he unloaded a flood of hot sperm inside her while she mewled with pleasure.

As soon as their breathing had returned somewhat to normal, and his cock had slipped out of her, she knelt slowly before him and, just as before, took it unhesitatingly in her mouth, teasing it cleverly back to life. Michael was trembling with excitement and nerves. What if someone decided to come down the alley? They would find him being sucked off by a prostitute. What would the police say, even, or especially, when it was revealed that she was his wife? But the sensations were so marvellous that he could not pull away.

When he was hard and raging again, Helen stood and turned her back to him. She hiked the skirt up to her waist and put her hands on the wall, thrusting the pale globes of her arse back at him. He got the message and slid his erection into her, gripping her hipbones firmly. They almost never used that position at home - Helen preferred (he thought) missionary or lying on their sides with one leg thrown over him.

He fucked her vigorously, gazing down at her nakedness. His eyes had got more used to the dim light now and he could see the way her stretched labia clung to his shaft when he withdrew, and the way her neat little anus winked at him as he plunged back in. It was uniquely erotic, made all the more so by the fact that he had lived with her for 21 years without experiencing this.

Michael wondered if he was hurting her with his relentless pumping, but she hadn’t complained - in fact she seemed to be loving it, judging by the two minor orgasms he thought he had detected. But his knees were aching and his cock was starting to go numb with the friction - for despite her copious lubrication, in that position Helen was still quite tight - so he forced himself up to the peak, thrust into her as far as he could, and unleashed a fiery explosion of semen deep inside her vagina.

They stayed like that, panting, until his cock finally stopped pulsing. Suddenly Helen twisted away from him, pulled her skirt down and ran off up the alleyway. Her husband had to stop and make his trousers decent before he could give chase. By the time he dashed out onto the high street she had vanished. With two loads of sperm running down her legs, he thought in wonderment.

He cast around for a while without much hope of finding her, then got back into his car and drove home. His mind a tired whirl, he had a cocoa, got ready for bed and remembered to leave the door unlocked for Helen’s return. He was minded to stay awake so that he could try and discuss it with her, but in the event he fell asleep anyway, and in the morning there she was, respectably dressing-gowned, bringing him a cup of tea, as normal as anything.

Michael  didn’t know what to do. He was reluctant to force her to explain her strange behaviour, in case she got upset and stopped – for he had enjoyed their two encounters more than any sex they had had for years. It was so intense and erotic – almost pornographic. But he wondered if his wife was becoming slightly unhinged. He thought about trying to ask Claire – for she seemed to have been the catalyst – but as a reserved Englishman he could not bring himself to discuss intimate matters with anyone, least of all another woman. So he just puzzled silently.

The next Saturday came round. Helen was behaving perfectly normally. They had dinner, their daughters went off to see friends preparatory to a night out, and then Helen announced that she was going out. Just like that, without asking him if he had anything planned. As it happened, he didn’t, as he was expecting that she had something up her sleeve – in fact he had had a half-erection all day at the prospect.

‘Anywhere special?’ he asked casually. His wife just touched the side of her nose, a gesture she had that meant ‘secret’. He suppressed a grin.

About 9 pm he got a text message from her. ‘Travelodge, London Road. Give yr name at reception & ask for the keycard to room 180’

The Travelodge was a big new anonymous place near the motorway, part of a chain, beloved of reps and, he presumed, prostitutes and their clients. He squirted some deodorant and got in his car. The girl on reception handed him the keycard for the room with a stony face, but maybe she just didn’t have much to smile about. He walked up to the first floor trembling slightly, wondering what he would find.

The room was warm and dim. On the big double bed, illuminated only by a single bedside lamp, a naked woman lay on her back. Almost naked – she wore a black choker and a blindfold, and Michael’s heart missed a beat as he saw that she was handcuffed to the rails of the bedhead. Her legs were parted, her light brown pubic bush not concealing the lips of her vagina.

It was Helen. Helen as he had never seen her before, nude and spread-eagled for his delectation. Her pale skin glowed in the yellow light. Her small breasts rose and fell slowly, the brown nipples erect. He sensed that to speak to her would break the erotic spell. Quietly, wondering if she had heard him enter the room, he undressed, his cock sticking out rigidly before him. He knelt between her legs and heard her give a little gasp of nervousness. For all she knew, he could be a hotel worker, a burglar, anybody.

Michael lowered his face towards her crotch, the warm scent of her arousal filling his nostrils. He inspected her vagina, noting the slightly swollen labia, the slit glistening with wetness. He had never had a chance to see her like this – Helen always seemed to be somewhat ashamed of her body, although there was nothing wrong with it. He lay softly between his wife’s legs, his face a few inches from her crotch, and blew gently. Again she gasped, and parted her thighs a little more.

In the early days of their marriage, he had attempted to give his wife oral sex, but she always pulled his head away from her crotch and wanted him to kiss her mouth instead. Eventually he decided that she had some sort of phobia about it, and didn’t press the point. Now, however, with her hands restrained, there was nothing she could do – in fact, she seemed to be inviting him. The thought filled him with lust. He applied his tongue for the very first time to those soft, hot, cushiony lips.

Helen gave a little moan as he started to lick her pubes, her thighs opening wide almost in a reflex action. Her wetness caressed his tongue and he almost came with the heady, tangy flavour of her juices. After so long, to finally get to make love orally to his wife’s most intimate parts … he gave himself up to an orgy of licking and chewing and sucking and delving, and Helen, from the noises she was making, loved every second of it. Michael was conscious of his inexperience at pleasuring a woman thus, but he seemed to be doing some things right, especially when he fastened onto her firm little clitoris and worried it with his tonguetip. Helen bucked her hips up at him and writhed and thrashed loudly, wrapping her thighs around his head. Her orgasm was swift and fierce and he felt hot juices seeping out over his chin. Her buttocks thudded into the bed as she tried to withdraw her over-sensitive clit from his mouth.

Michael’s cock was so hard it was painful, especially pressed into the bed. He rose up and looked down at his wife’s pale body, her thighs spread obscenely wide, her vagina wet and big and beckoning. He plunged himself into her hot cavity with a groan of deliverance. Her internal muscles were still quivering from her climax, and he pumped into her slickness hard and fast, supporting himself on his arms, looking down on her body helpless under his onslaught. Did a rapist feel like this, having the power to commit any act, no matter how degrading? He wanted to possess this woman – was she really his wife? – utterly, to submit her totally to his will. He felt his orgasm rising fast, and without really thinking what he was doing pulled out of her clutching vagina, grasped his cock in a fist and spurted his hot seed over her breasts and stomach and hips.

There seemed an awful lot of it -  a week’s worth, in fact. It splattered thickly onto her pale skin, ropes and globules covering her from neck to pubes. Helen gasped as she felt the warm rain falling onto her; did another climax ripple through her petite frame? Her husband knelt between her thighs and put his hands onto her breasts, feeling the nipples drilling into his palms, and smeared the sperm over her hot skin, massaging it in until her whole torso was covered in a sticky film. As he worked his way down, the smell of her sex juices penetrated his brain and he lay once again between her legs and buried his face in her gaping wet crotch.

Helen never had more than one orgasm per session of love-making – she claimed, obliquely, to be too sensitive. It occurred to Michael that with her handcuffed to the bed he could lick her to as many climaxes as he liked, overloading her pleasure centres while she begged him to stop. He wanted to hear her voice pleading with him even as she gasped through the latest of  countless orgasms …

But it appeared that she was not too sensitive this time, or at least was using the sensitivity to reach a plane of ecstasy far above her usual. He hooked his arms under her hips to hold her in position, and licked and sucked and probed with a will until his tongue ached and his lips were bruised, and his wife shook and howled and throbbed as climax after climax ripped through her body and the bed became soaked with her juices. Eventually his cock, again trapped between his stomach and the mattress, ached for release, so he knelt up, lifted her hips onto his knees and fed his erection into her gaping, drenched vagina. In that position he could rasp his cockhead along the upper wall of her cavity, and despite her excess of lubrication it wasn’t long before he had come, flooding her already flooded innards with fresh sperm.

Feeling suddenly deflated, he withdrew and watched as Helen’s thighs flopped open and a white trickle oozed from her dark red tunnel onto the already soaked sheet. He dressed quickly, overcome with guilt, and let himself out, realising only when he was driving home that he had left the keycard in the room and that his wife was still, presumably, handcuffed to the bed, where she would be found in the morning by the chambermaid, covered with dried semen and lying in a pool of sexual fluids. He agonised over what to do. Could he go back to the hotel and explain what had happened? Maybe just say he had locked himself out?

His phone beeped and he pulled over and read the text – it was from his wife. All it said was ‘OK’. So she must have got free somehow – maybe the handcuffs had been unlocked all the time. He breathed a sigh of relief and his heart rate started to slow.

Later, lying awake beside the sleeping pyjama-clad form of his familiar wife, he tried to make sense of her behaviour. Maybe she had discovered deep well-springs of sexuality which she could only tap by acting out a role. Maybe she was as shy as he was at discussing such things. Maybe he should just lie back and enjoy it – for it was certainly extremely enjoyable. He hoped that there wasn’t a more sinister, psychopathological, reason …

The maddening thing was that at other times she was the same old Helen, friendly, genteelly affectionate, wifely, and utterly unsexual. Her clothes were smart but unflattering, she still dressed and undressed in private, she would kiss him with love but not passion, and anything more than a quick hug around the waist was gently fended off. He wondered what she would do if suddenly, while she was cooking or ironing, he swept her long skirt up to her waist and buried his face in her crotch – a crotch neatly hidden in sensible white cotton panties, of course.

On their way to the supermarket one evening for the weekly shop, he attempted to broach the subject.

‘Helen … last Saturday night … I just want to know …’

‘Didn’t you enjoy it?’ she said in a strained, muffled voice, her head turned away from him.

‘Of course I enjoyed it. It was fantastic. But …’

‘Let’s just leave it like that, shall we?’ There was a catch in her voice that made him think she was close to tears. Silence descended and Michael did not try again. He wondered if he had spoilt things and there would be no more role-plays.

But Saturday evening arrived and again Helen said that she was going out. She had seemed on edge all day and her husband wondered if this heralded some new erotic adventure. Apparently he was right.

‘Drive to corner Canal St & Mill St 9.15’ came the text message. Canal Street was a area notorious for tarts and drug dealers, according to the local paper. He hoped that Helen wasn’t biting off more than she could chew. He got in the car, making sure that he arrived at the rendezvous dead on time. Sure enough, in the yellow street light, he could see a slim figure standing on the corner. She wore a yellow boob tube and a tight yellow skirt that stopped about an inch below her crotch. Silver 6-inch heels and a small handbag completed the tart costume. He had passed a couple of other tarts further back but they were well-covered by comparison.

He pulled up at the kerb and opened the window. Helen leaned in, her breasts almost popping out of the boob tube.

‘I’m available,’ she husked, her eyes sparkling. She looked very different with make-up. He thought he could detect alcohol on her breath.

‘How much?’ he said, playing along.

‘Fifty. I do anything.’

‘Get in.’ The way she had said ‘anything’ made his cock swell dangerously.

She opened the door and climbed in, giving him a flash of her naked crotch. He wondered again how a well-bred, respectable woman like Helen could bring herself to stand on a street corner almost naked.

‘Drive round the ring road,’ she told him, and almost as soon as they had set off she reached across and unzipped his flies and hauled out his cock. Then to his utter shock she bent over and took it in her mouth. He moaned and grew instantly rigid, almost climaxing with the heat of her mouth.

Helen’s fellatio technique had improved – had someone been giving her lessons? Her lips slid up and down his shaft slowly and wetly, her tongue twining around his bursting glans, while he tried to concentrate on driving. There were many traffic lights on the ring road and they seemed to get stopped at each one. Michael glanced at the cars on either side, hoping they would not notice that a semi-naked woman had her head buried in his crotch.

It was getting harder and harder to keep the car in a straight line as Helen worked him up slowly to a powerful climax, sucking and nibbling and licking expertly. Suddenly it was all too much for him; he swerved into a bus layby and felt the eruption beginning. He had intended to alert Helen in case she didn’t want him to come in her mouth, but it was too late. The hot rushes of sperm jetted out of him into her hotness, and she didn’t even flinch or pull away.

When his spasms had died away she sat back and rested her head. Her lips were closed and there was a slight smile on her face. Michael saw that her skirt had ridden up so that her pubic bush was on display. She turned towards him and his eyes widened in shock as she opened her mouth to show him the pool of cloudy semen in it, then swallowed luxuriously. Her hands smoothed down her sides sensuously and came to rest on her thighs.

‘Drive on,’ she said, slurring slightly.

Michael did as instructed. Out of the corner of his eye he watched as one of his wife’s hands slid to between her parted thighs and started to move slowly and regularly. The other hand freed one breast from the boob tube and teased at the swollen nipple. She was masturbating! His sweet genteel wife of 21 years was actually masturbating in full view of him and anyone else who might see into the car!

Helen’s eyes were closed and she was obviously giving herself up totally to the physical sensations of her fingers. Soft moans escaped her lips; her naked legs writhed slowly. His cock, still hanging out of his trousers, grew erect again. Suddenly her eyes flicked open.

‘Turn off here. First left. The car park.’ Her words were breathless, as though she was close to orgasm. Michael saw the entrance to a multi-storey car park, and as he turned in he noticed that it was free in the evening. His wife may have been in tart mode but she was still being careful with their money. He pulled into the first available space - the building was pretty empty and he couldn’t see any people around, but it was not private by any stretch of the imagination. Fluorescent lights cast a greenish glow into the car.

As soon as he had turned off the engine Helen pushed his seat back as far as it would go and climbed on top of him. Her boob tube had slipped down around her waist, letting her breasts hang free, and the skirt was also pushed up around her waist. Her mouth fastened on his, wetly, sloppily. He could smell the alcohol. She reached down and slipped his erection into her hot, wet cavity, then let her hips fall so that he plumbed the depths of her tightness.

She rode him fast for a minute or two, her breasts and hard nipples brushing his chest. Then she rose off him and reached back with one hand. Michael was not sure what she was doing, then he felt her fist grip his cock and a soft but firm orifice pressed against its tip. They locked eyes - Helen had a manic gleam in hers. My god, she was pushing him into her anus!

Michael had never had anal sex with his wife or anyone else. She would tolerate him stroking her sphincter during intercourse but any attempt to slide a finger, or anything else, inside was met with a firm withdrawal. They had never even mentioned the act. And now she was straddling him in a public car park, where any passer-by might see, letting her own weight force his straining shaft into her tight but slowly dilating anus!

She was determined, that was for sure. Despite the resistance of her strong muscle ring she was sliding millimetre by millimetre down his column, giving little pants and grunts as her sphincter stretched wider and wider. It was so erotic that Michael had to will himself not to climax - actually the fear that any minute they would be discovered helped to stave off an imminent eruption.

Eventually, with a gasp of triumph and a look of pure bliss in her eyes, the 42-year-old wife and mother had taken his full length into her bowels. Her grip was fiercely tight, but she showed no signs of pain. She began to rise and fall on him, her internal muscles rasping along his shaft. Faster and faster she pumped, her mouth slack and her eyes unfocussed, one hand now reaching down between them to stroke herself. Michael was in an extremity of pleasure, his hips thrusting upwards to match her rhythm. With an explosion of incoherent cries and unbelievably intense spasms, they climaxed together, Helen’s sphincter milking the semen from him in red-hot spurts.

She fell forward onto him, sweat beading in the small of her back. Michael kissed her hair, and felt his cock shrinking and slipping out of her anus. As his breathing slowed he looked around and saw a middle-aged couple walking away down the lane of the car park. Had they seen anything? He began to tremble.

Helen pushed herself off him and flopped back into the passenger seat, making no attempt to cover her nakedness. ‘Take me back,’ she murmured. Her husband, shell-shocked, tucked his wet cock back in and started the car, trying to drive carefully despite his shaking hands. He couldn’t think of anything to say to her, and Helen seemed to be dozing.

He pulled up in Canal Street, on the corner where she had been waiting for him. Casually she hiked the boob tube up to cover her breasts, and pulled the skirt down over her hips.

‘Will you be OK?’ he said as she opened the car door, worried for her safety. In response she gave him a lingering wet kiss and tottered off down a side street in her 6-inch heels. Michael drove home, trying to reassure himself that she knew what she was doing. But something bothered him. He knew very little about anal sex, but had understood that it was not something that one approached lightly. Unprepared or unlubricated, it would be extremely painful. Not only had his wife’s anus opened up for him without causing her much discomfort, but there had definitely seemed to be lubrication there over and above any juices that might have come from her vagina. So she must have been preparing herself for this act, perhaps loosening herself up over a period of days with a finger, then two or three, then something the size of his cock ... and had applied some sort of gel in anticipation. Or - a sudden thought -  was she no stranger to anal penetration ... was she in fact playing the whore for others too? Did she have a secret life as a prostitute, letting other men plumb her back - and front - entrances at will? He began to sweat. He wanted to wait up for her and have the whole thing out, but he knew, deep down, that she would just refuse to talk.

This was indeed the case. She sat next to him in church the next morning, demure, soberly dressed, singing and praying like a nun, and all the time he could not stop thinking of the feel of her tight anus as it slid slowly down his aching shaft. A shaft which now asserted itself, in church of all places. He glanced sideways at his wife, who showed no signs of discomfort while sitting on the hard pew. What was going on in her head?

The next few days were filled with mundane discussion about re-decorating the lounge, whether his mother should go into sheltered housing, which universities their elder daughter should apply to, all the usual trivia of a middle-class household. It was as if they were both leading a double life - in fact, it was exactly that.

On Wednesday morning Helen announced that she and Claire were going to have their hair done and then planned have lunch in town. She hadn’t mentioned Claire for a while and Michael had assumed that the friendship had cooled off somewhat. It didn’t really affect him anyway - he worked in a neighbouring town and took sandwiches for lunch.

So he was surprised when, about 3 o’clock that afternoon, the door of his office opened and his wife walked in. She hardly ever came to his workplace, unless they had arranged to go to a local event later on. She wore a long raincoat and her hair had indeed been ‘done’ - it was streaked with auburn and layered in a much more adventurous style than he had ever seen. It made her look maturely sexy. Oh-oh, he thought.

‘I like it,’ he said, as she posed by his desk. Then to his shock she undid the belt of the raincoat and dropped it on the floor. Underneath she was naked apart from sheer black hold-up stockings. Her pubic hair had been trimmed into a small neat triangle which left her pussy lips exposed. His jaw dropped.

‘What about the rest?’ she purred, and sinuously climbed onto his desk, positioning herself on all fours, legs spread, her bum and crotch not 12 inches from his face. He saw that her puss and arse were completely shaved and smooth, the labia swollen and pouting, her anus a dark star-shaped focus. She gave a little murmur and made her anus open and wink at him. The musky scent of her sexual juices swirled over him.

Michael was instantly erect. He realised that she had not locked his office door but he could not delay to do anything about it. Any of his colleagues might walk in to find his wife displaying all her intimate charms. Nevertheless he put his hands on her hips and buried his face in her warm crotch. Her slippery labia slid across his cheeks and his tongue speared deep into her tunnel. She was full of hot silky juice and he scooped it up on his tongue and slurped it down as if it was water in the desert. She tilted her hips further, mutely begging him to lick her clitoris, which was standing proudly from her taut membranes. He did so, caressing it with his tongue, and before long she had climaxed quite noisily, a cascade of warm juice spilling out of her gaping vagina and covering his face.

Finding that she was not too sensitive for more, he licked and sucked her swollen lips and worked his way up to the fold of skin at the back of her vulva. Then, daringly, he moved upwards still further until his tonguetip was teasing the puckered, rubbery flesh of her anus. He felt her relax and dilate and his tonguetip slipped into the tight orifice.

Never in a million years had Michael imagined that he would be able to tongue his wife’s back entrance, especially not while sat at his desk. He probed deeper, wondering whether there would be an unpleasant taste. In fact there was none - maybe she had cleaned herself thoroughly in readiness. He got in to the full length of his tongue and began to ‘fuck’ her arsehole vigorously, and she pushed back at him and grunted with pleasure. He put his thumb onto her firm clitoris and massaged it, all the time spearing her arse with his tongue as deeply as he could. Her body grew taut and quivery, and soon she climaxed loudly, almost severing the root of his tongue as her anus clamped down on it. Warm liquid trickled over his hand.

Michael was inflamed beyond reason. His cock was hurting with the pressure of the sperm boiling within him. He stood up, unzipped his trousers and hauled out his aching column. The sight of Helen’s wet, shaven crotch, her pussy lips gaping, her anus still opening and closing as her orgasm ebbed, made his head swim. He bent his cock downwards and pressed its bursting tip against his wife’s back entrance. She immediately began to wink it fast, the puckered skin massaging his glans. This was too much for him. His orgasm exploded, gushes of semen splashing outwards. Some of it presumably went inside, but most covered her buttocks and began to slide downwards over her puss. He heard her giggling softly.

Michael sat down suddenly, momentarily drained. His wife wiggled her arse, making some of the semen drip onto his papers. Then she climbed sinuously off the desk and stood looking out of the window, flexing her pale buttocks to squish the sperm between them. His office was only on the first floor and overlooked the main entrance to the building – her nudity would have been plain to anyone outside. She turned round, grinned at him, picked up her raincoat and put it on, then came over and kissed him on the nose.

‘Mmm, you’re all wet,’ she said, delightedly, and left.

Her husband slumped in his chair, almost forgetting to tuck his wet cock back in his trousers. Had it been a dream? No, the heady scent of her sexual juices drying on his face was real enough. There was something else too, but it took him a while to pinpoint it. When she had kissed him … yes, on her breath. Alcohol again. She and Claire must have had a drink with their lunch. Claire! – she was the key to all this. Why hadn’t he seen it earlier? He resolved to talk to the woman, despite his embarrassment about discussing intimate sexual details.

Helen was already home, cooking tea, when he got back from work. She was maddeningly normal again, slightly rushed because she had a church committee meeting at 6.30. Once she had gone, Michael hunted through their address book. With characteristic efficiency Helen had got Claire’s phone number written in. Taking a deep breath he dialled the number. What if Tom, her husband, answered? He would say that Helen thought she had left something in Claire’s car – or some excuse like that.

But Claire herself answered.

‘Hi, Claire, uh, it’s Michael – Helen’s husband.’

‘Hi Michael,’ she said, with a slight purr of amusement in her voice. ‘What can I do for you?’ Was it his imagination or did she intend a double meaning there?

‘Um, well, it’s about Helen, really. I wanted to ask you … well, does she seem all right to you? I mean, in herself …’

‘She seems fine to me. I’m not quite sure what you mean …’

‘Well, ever since your party, you know, the vicars and tarts thing … she’s been behaving a bit oddly … at times.’

He heard Claire give a muffled chuckle. ‘In what way?’ God, she wasn’t making this easy for him, was she?

‘She seems like a totally different person, sometimes …’

‘You mean, like a tart? I thought she made a rather good tart …’

He took a deep breath. ‘Yes, like a tart.’

‘Aren’t you enjoying it?’

‘No, I mean, yes, of course I am. But …’

‘Good. She assumes you’re enjoying it. My advice is, make the most of it.’

‘It’s just … so … unexpected.’

Claire chuckled again. ‘I’ll give you a hint. Vodka.’ There was a click as she put the phone down.

Michael stood looking at the wall. Yes, vodka. That was what she had been drinking while she and Claire ‘tarted up’ at the party. And when she had met him in the pub. And presumably on every other occasion  when the sex had been wild and raunchy. So vodka was the key …

He went over the rest of the conversation in his mind. It was obvious that Claire knew what had been going on, that Helen had described their encounters and even analysed his reactions, laying bare her and his innermost secrets to her friend. What else? Had she and Claire planned things beforehand? He wondered if Claire would report his phone call.

Michael liked to be in control of situations, in a low-key sort of way. To date, Helen had been firmly in charge of their erotic encounters, using him as a tool to satisfy her new-found lusts. And now it seemed as if Claire had been pulling the strings. Maybe he could change that. But nothing too sudden …

Helen had another meeting the next night, a craft group she belonged too. About as respectable as you could get, some middle-aged women sewing and chatting over tea and shortbread. She would be back about ten. Fortunately their daughters were out, both staying with friends. He turned the lights down low, put drinks to hand and waited, nursing an erection at the thought of seducing his wife.

He heard her come in the front door, hang up her coat, take off her outdoor shoes. She entered the lounge, in one of her usual blouses and long skirts. Elgar’s Serenade for Strings played low on the music system. He gave her a chaste kiss, made small talk about her evening, sat her down in the armchair.

‘Drink?’ He offered her a glass of vodka and orange. She looked at him quizzically, took the glass, sniffed it. She looked at him and a slight smile touched her mouth. He stared at her. Suddenly she knocked  the drink back in one swallow and sat back, holding his eyes. Slowly she undid the top button of her blouse, revealing the upper edge of her soft white bra. She reached in and drew out one pale breast, then ran a finger around the aureole, making the nipple pucker and stiffen and swell. It was exquisitely erotic.

Michael lost control. He stood up and gripped the lapels of her blouse and ripped them apart, the buttons flying. Then he hooked his fingers in the waist bands of her skirt and panties and dragged them off her with loud ripping sounds. Helen just sat there, smiling coolly, her pale slender body naked apart from the bra covering one breast. Her husband unzipped and drew out his aching erection, then lifted her by the hips and rammed himself hard into her vagina, heedless of whether she was ready. Helen gave a cry and gripped the arms of the chair. With strength born of lust he picked her up and carried her over to the table, laying her with her buttocks on the edge. He forced her thighs apart and rammed his cock deep into her insides.

It was rape, pure and simple. Except that Helen didn’t resist, didn’t even struggle. She just gazed at him with that enigmatic smile, and then her eyes slowly closed as he began to thrust powerfully into her, rocking the table back and forth and making her exposed breast bounce around. He was like an automaton, a steam engine, pistoning into her with a manic rhythm and power. It was if he wanted to hurt her, to bruise her insides, to crush her womb, to elicit some sort of protest, anything. But she just lay there and let him do it. And after a while, as he pounded away, sweating and panting, she turned her head to one side and moaned  in the unmistakeable throes of an orgasm.

This inflamed him even more. Damn it, she wasn’t supposed to enjoy it, was she? She was a  tart, a whore, to be treated like dirt, to be used foully and then cast aside. He redoubled his efforts, giving her the full length of his cock on every stroke, ramming his pubic bone against her clit, hearing the liquid sounds coming from her vagina. He had always deferred to her small slim stature and been careful not to be too rough during sex. Now he was trying to hurt her.

But it wasn’t working. Another orgasm rippled through her. He pulled out, looking down at his red, inflamed cock, dripping with her juices, and at her swollen, gaping labia with the big dark tunnel between. Weakly she lifted a hand and rubbed at her clit. ‘Fuck me,’ she moaned.

Michael had never heard his wife use the work ‘fuck’ before. He didn’t think she was capable of saying it. It acted like a spark on gunpowder. He gripped her thighs hard enough to leave bruises and rammed his cock back inside her with a loud squelching sound. He fucked her fast and furiously until the sweat was dripping off his forehead. Helen was gripping the edges of the table to stop herself being pushed off. Again she climaxed, this time loudly, juice oozing out over his pubes. With a final lunge he buried himself as far as he could in his wife’s body, arched his back and let loose a series of gut-wrenching jets of sperm which seemed to last forever.

When his balls stopped pulsing he pulled out of her and staggered back. Helen lay on the table, her thighs spread obscenely, a white trickle already emerging from her gaping vagina. Tiredly she reached down and gathered some of it up in her fingers, lifted it to her mouth and sucked them. He watched for a while as the flow dwindled, leaving a big cloudy puddle on the polished wood, then staggered upstairs to bed, his head swimming. The violence of his emotions had left him shocked and a little nauseous. He wondered what repercussions there would be in the morning.

In point of fact there were none. Helen was her usual self, efficiently getting breakfast, making his sandwiches, sorting her files for work. The table had been cleaned and the torn clothes tidied away. Their conversation was utterly normal and banal. She didn’t even seem to be walking awkwardly, despite the severe reaming he had given her. And it had felt good, to fuck her – there was no other word for it – so thoroughly. His cock still tingled with the memory. He wanted to grab her, rip her clothes off again, and take her from behind as she bent over the kitchen worktop – perhaps even take her in the arse. But he knew that the time was not right.

At work that morning, he was surprised to get a call from Claire. She asked him to meet her for a drink at lunchtime, at a country pub midway between the respective workplaces. After a moment’s hesitation he agreed, and then felt guilty. During all their marriage he had never met another woman socially without Helen being aware of it. Then he shrugged. It wasn’t as if there was anything between them. It wasn’t he who had suggested it. He didn’t even fancy Claire – in fact he wasn’t sure if he even liked her. There were too many unknowns. Hopefully some of them might be cleared up.

She arrived a few minutes after him, in a smart pin-striped jacket and skirt. But for the excessively low cleavage and the rather short skirt, she might have been an executive – maybe someone from a property developer discussing a new project. He got the drinks – a glass of wine for her and a tonic water for him; Michael never drank during the day. They sat opposite at a low table, his eyes drawn involuntarily to the shadowed cleft between her thighs. Michael was stone-faced and suspicious.

‘So you’re getting the hang of this, then?’ she said with a grin.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Last night. Sounds like you had fun together.’

He was annoyed that she knew about what had transpired, then realised that there was only one way she could have found out.

‘Look, what is going on with you and my wife? I don’t understand, and I don’t like it.’

‘She tells me that you like it well enough when she plays the tart.’

‘She tells you quite a lot, doesn’t she?’ his voice rose. ‘I’m not sure I like the idea of our intimate details being bandied about between you two.’ His face flushed at the thought of just how intimate might be the details of what Helen had told her friend - the anal sex, for instance.

‘Relax, it’s nothing out of the ordinary. I’ve done it all myself, and more.’ Claire paused. ‘She really enjoyed it when you raped her last night, by the way. Did you know that she had an little orgasm when you ripped her clothes off?’

Michael stood up. ‘This is too much. I’m off. Just leave my wife alone, will you? You’re going to wreck our marriage.’

She reached up and grabbed his hand. ‘Don’t be silly. Your marriage is as strong as a rock. And it just got stronger. You’re starting to get to know each other better, at last. What you need to do now is to start to talk about it.’

‘You’re quite the little psychologist, aren’t you,’ he said, sarcastically. But he sat down again. Maybe she had a point ...

‘Not really. I’m just helping Helen to find her other self – what I call the slut-whore.’

‘The what?’

‘Slut-whore. Look, inside every woman, no matter how prim and proper, is another person, one who has no inhibitions about sex, no hang-ups, no limits. That’s my theory anyway. I call her the slut-whore. Helen’s no exception. All you have to do is find the trigger. We found hers easily. You have to admit she’s quite … interesting … when she’s a slut-whore, isn’t she?’

‘So you’re an expert at this, are you?’

‘No … but she’s not the first person I’ve helped.’

‘You helped her quite a bit, then …’

‘It’s all been under control. I was always close by, keeping an eye on things. She went very fast. If you street-walk dressed like she did, for instance, it can be dangerous.’

‘So it was you who unlocked the handcuffs?’

Claire nodded, grinning.

Michael sat back, deflated. ‘I don’t know whether to be furious with you or thank you.’

‘Just doing a good deed for a friend.’

A thought stole in his mind. ‘You don’t have any ... ulterior motives?’

Claire shook her head. ‘I just want people to have the same enjoyment out of sex that I do. To discover their slut-whore.’

‘You discovered yours a while back, I suppose.’

‘No, I didn’t need to. I was born one. It’s my natural state. I have to make a big effort to behave respectably.’ As she said this she pressed her hands onto her thighs, and slowly drew up her skirt. Michael's eyes followed, hypnotised, as more of her pale skin was revealed. Finally he saw her pussy, naked, shaven and gleaming with her juices. Claire gave a shudder, and pulled her skirt down again.

'You see?'

Just then Michael’s phone beeped to let him know there was a text message. It was from Helen: ‘Church 10 pm tonight. Side door.’ He thought it over and showed it to Claire, who chuckled.

‘She’s got a key to the side door, I know,’ he said. ‘For when she does the flower displays.’

‘The lady is branching out on her own. My guess is she’ll be lying on the altar in a white robe, the sacrificial virgin. Waiting for you to deflower her. Or maybe kneeling at the communion rail, waiting to accept your wine on her tongue. That’s what I’d do anyway. Good luck!’

 

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 last modified 22 September 2006