Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Kirsty paused for a moment before turning the key in the front door of her home. It was the last chance to gather her thoughts. It was Saturday morning, and she knew that Mitch, her husband, would be in. But had he believed the hurried phone call she had made to him the previous evening, saying that, following a night out in Manchester with the girls from work, she was staying over with one of them?

He might believe it, because she had occasionally done the same thing before. She and Mitch lived in a village a few miles from the city centre, and public transport was not great late at night. And a taxi was very expensive. But Kirsty knew she was not very good at lying, and always sounded guilty when she tried. Plus Mitch could hardly fail to notice the disheveled state she was in, the messed-up hair and dress, so different to her usual neatness, to say nothing of the bites and scratches on her body. He might also notice the kind of sated glow of contentment she felt. The feeling, as she admitted to herself with a shock at the crudity of her thought, of having been given a good seeing to.

On the other hand, she knew that Mitch wasn’t a very observant man. She had known him all her life, as they both came from this same Lancashire village. There had been a time when Kirsty – clever, pretty, sparky Kirsty – had dreamt of escaping, dreamt of a different, more glamorous life in London, perhaps, New York or Dubai. A high-flying career. A rich and powerful husband.

Somehow, it hadn’t worked out like that and now, aged 25, she was still living in the village where she had been born. She had a career of sorts, working as a cashier in a branch of one of the big high street banks, but it wasn’t that secure as more and more branches were closed. Most people used the internet now. Kirsty had been lucky, though, because when the branch in her village was axed, a few months previously, she had been transferred to Manchester city centre, and that was unlikely to close. It wasn’t exactly the kind of job she had imagined having when she was younger, but she liked it, especially since the move to Manchester. The people she worked with were a fun lot, mainly young women like her, and she liked the bustle of the city.

She also, though she kept this to herself because the other girls professed to loathe it, liked the uniform she had to wear, a pleated blue skirt which she had adapted to be short and tight, and a crisp white blouse. It made her feel sexy and stylish, and she enjoyed curating the underwear beneath, favouring black or blue stockings and suspenders, with matching lacy bras. Or, sometimes, especially in summer, she went bare legged, with knickers and camisole underneath, sometimes pale mint, or ivory, or pink. A couple of times recently she had even gone to work with no panties at all, enjoying the feeling of the breeze ruffling the neatly trimmed fair hair of her bush.

Not that anyone got to see any of this, apart from Mitch, and he didn’t seem to notice or be much interested. Anyway, although Kirsty only rarely reflected on the reason for this, she dressed differently in the evenings and at the weekends, when they spent most time together. Then, it was usually just jeans and jumpers, with plain cotton undies, or track suit bottoms and a sweatshirt, with a sports bra and knickers underneath, if she was going running. They had been married for two years now, and Kirsty was aware that, as with her career, she had settled for him when she might have had someone, well, someone better. By which she supposed she meant someone richer, more successful, more ambitious, more glamorous. Mitch worked in the small convenience store in their village, and that was enough for him.

He was undoubtedly pleased with himself to have captured Kirsty, unquestionably the most attractive woman in the area but, having done so, he took her pretty much for granted. Their sex life certainly wasn’t anything to write home about, consisting mainly of a Sunday morning fumble. Kirsty wasn’t that bothered. She had had a few boyfriends before going out with, and then marrying, Mitch, and had slept with some of them, so she was aware that he wasn’t very well-endowed, and came very quickly, so that she had rarely, if ever, orgasmed with him. But sex wasn’t everything, and so long as, eventually, he gave her children — and she was in no hurry for that, carefully taking the pill every day – she was contented enough. He was comfortable, steady, reliable, undemanding. Kirsty hardly ever admitted to herself that he was also a bit boring.

But she had never been unfaithful to him until now, and as Kirsty entered the house she was determined that she would not try to lie but that, if she could avoid it, she wouldn’t tell the truth either. That is, if he accepted her story about having stayed with one of the girls from work then she wouldn’t tell him what she had really been bursa bayan eskort doing, and with whom. She hoped that would be the case. But she wouldn’t tell an actual lie, and if he asked her outright then she would tell him the truth, or at least as much of it as she had to.

As soon as she got inside their little terraced house, she knew that she was going to have to tell the truth. Mitch was immediately accusing her. He had phoned Janie, the girl from work who Kirsty had claimed to be staying with, and she had told him that not only had Kirsty not stayed over but that she hadn’t been at the girls’ night out the previous evening. So what had she been up to, he demanded to know.

Kirsty put her bag down on the floor. It contained her work uniform, which she had changed out of for her supposed night out with the girls. In its place she had worn, as she still wore, an emerald green dress which perfectly contrasted with her shoulder-length blond hair, and was sufficiently low cut as to show the cleavage of her 36C breasts and the occasional flash of bra. It was also cut at the thigh, so that at certain times the top of her black stockings could be glimpsed. Beneath, she wore black panties and bra, and a sheer black slip.

“Leave it, Mitch,” she said quietly. “I’d rather not tell you. I won’t lie to you, but I’d rather not tell you and, honestly, I think you’d be happier not knowing.”

But that wasn’t going to work. He insisted that she told him where she had been and with whom.

“Are you sure you really want to know? Because I warn you, you won’t like it,” Kirsty said.

“Tell me,” Mitch repeated.

“OK, I had dinner with Richard, and then I spent the night in a hotel with him.”

“Who the hell is ‘Richard’?”

“He’s a manager at the bank,” Kirsty replied.

“What? I thought your manager was that old guy, whatshisname, Clive?”

“Clive’s the branch manager. Richard is his boss, or more accurately the boss of his boss or something like that. He’s from the head office in London.”

“Oh, a big shot, is he?” Mitch sneered.

“You could say that, yes,” she replied calmly. “So now you know, OK?”

Of course it wasn’t OK. Mitch wanted to know more. In fact he demanded to know everything.

“Really? Everything?” snapped Kirsty, starting to feel irritated. “What’s the good of that? Is that going to make you feel better?”

Still, he insisted. He wanted to know everything from beginning to end.

So Kirsty began to tell him.

***

It had started on the Thursday of that week. Richard had come to the Manchester branch as part of a national tour in his capacity as Head of Retail Strategy or some such impressive title. Kirsty had been briefly introduced to him. It was no more than a courtesy, but she had immediately felt an attraction towards him. It wasn’t just that he was well-built and good-looking, it was that he exuded confidence and power. A man who knew how the world worked. At the same time, she and sensed a little spark between them, sensed his appraising glance at her body, at the swell of her breasts under her blouse and the way her blue skirt hugged her trim waist and hips. But it was only a fleeting moment, as he exchanged some pleasantries and moved on to meet others, before going into a meeting room with Clive and a regional manager.

Later, Kirsty left the branch for her lunch break, and as she did so she bumped into him again, also leaving. It seemed to be pure chance although, later, Richard told her he had engineered it. He invited her to accompany him for lunch in a nearby pub and, surprised but flattered, she had agreed. It was a quick lunch, as Kirsty was literally only allowed an hour, but during it the talk moved from chat about work to a much more personal, and increasingly flirtatious, conversation.

Kirsty didn’t disguise from Mitch that the flirtation had been on both sides. She even admitted that, at one stage, she had gone to the bathroom and undone the top two buttons of her blouse, so that her lacy blue bra and her cleavage were on display when she returned. She saw that Richard noticed, and sensed his excitement, just as she saw him notice that the darker blue tops of her blue stockings were visible below the hem of her tight blue skirt. Yes, she sensed his excitement and it excited her, adding to the excitement she already felt from the company of this suave, successful and handsome man.

At the end of lunch, Richard had asked her to go out for dinner, so that they could have a longer conversation. It couldn’t be that night, because he had to be at a work event as part of his trip, but how about Friday night? Kirsty had told him that she was a married woman but he just laughed, and said that he liked married women best and, anyway, he was married himself, but there was no harm in just going out to a restaurant.

After bursa escort bayan she had agreed, and gone back to work, Kirsty kept repeating to herself that there was, indeed, no harm in just going out to a restaurant. That same thought sustained her through Thursday evening, at home with Mitch as usual. Even the next morning, as she packed her evening clothes in her bag, she kept repeating it to herself. She hadn’t had to lie to Mitch, as he had just assumed she was going on the usual Friday night out with the other women from work, and she said goodbye as usual when she left home.

But all the time there was a part of her that knew that this was not just about going out to a restaurant. And whilst the outfit she had chosen for the evening was one that she might possibly have worn anyway, she chose it half-knowing that Richard would see it, right down to the lingerie, and she applied her make up with even greater care than usual, just as, the previous evening, she had carefully painted her fingernails to match the green of her dress. Her black shoes, too, had a higher heel than she would usually wear, giving her not just greater height but subtly re-shaping the lines of her trim figure, tightening her bum and lifting her firm breasts a little higher. She knew what she was doing, and why.

After work on Friday, Kirsty had met Richard at the bar they had agreed on. They had a drink, and then took a taxi to a French restaurant Richard had booked. It was stylish, expensive. Not the kind of place she and Mitch could afford to go to and, if they had, Mitch would never have been able to confidently order food and wine in the way that came as second nature to Richard. Kirsty noticed that, and she liked it. It made him seem powerful, attractive. As the meal went on, the flirtation began again. Kirsty’s hazel eyes and bright white teeth sparkled at Richard, and she did all those little things which she knew men liked, biting her lower lip coyly, and twirling her fair hair with her finger. As the meal progressed, she even slipped off one of her high-heeled shoes and caressed his leg with her stockinged foot as she held his glance with hers.

Kirsty finished her story quickly.

“Then he invited me to his hotel room and I agreed. That’s when I phoned you and said I was staying at Janie’s. Then we went to his room and, well, made love, or had sex, or whatever you want to call it. And that’s it. OK?”

It was not OK. Mitch wanted to know much more. What, exactly, had they done? What positions? How many times? Had Kirsty enjoyed it?

“Mitch, this is crazy,” Kirsty said firmly. “What’s the point of me telling you all that? It will only make you jealous.”

“Jealous?” her husband flashed back at her. “Why ‘jealous’? Was he so much better than me?”

“Mitch,” Kirst warned. “Please don’t do this. I won’t lie to you, so don’t ask questions unless you are prepared to hear the answers.”

“Was he so much better than me?” Mitch repeated.

“Alright, then,” Kirsty responded, angrily. “If you really want to know then I’ll tell you. Yes, he was better than you. He’s bigger than you, stronger than you, richer than you. His cock is at least twice as long as yours, and much thicker, and he lasts much longer than you. And he fucked me, hard, three times. Twice last night and once this morning. I can still feel his cum in my knickers. Happy now? How does that make you feel?”

The answer to that was obvious to her without him replying. Mitch looked stunned and hurt. But, also, his cock was now poking out of the fly of his pyjamas, and it was harder than Kirsty had ever seen it before.

“My god,” she said. “This turns you on, doesn’t it? That’s just… weird. What kind of a man are you?”

“I don’t know,” replied Mitch miserably. “I don’t understand it. Just… please Kirsty… please jerk me off.”

“I… I don’t know if I want to,” Kirsty replied, confused. “I mean, you want me to jerk you off while you think about me being fucked by another man?”

“Yes,” Mitch grunted. “Yes, please, just do it.”

“Well, OK,” Kirsty agreed, half-shocked and half-amused. “But first let me get out of this dress. I don’t want you spurting your stuff on it.”

With that, Kirsty removed her green dress and stood in front of Mitch in her thin black slip, through which the rest of her lingerie could be seen. She reached down to his cock, thinking that it looked so engorged that it might explode with the merest touch of her fingers. It was no bigger than before, of course, no more than four inches, but it was certainly much harder than usual. She let her fingers brush it, hardly more than scratching it with her painted fingernails, and heard him gasp.

“Go on telling me what he did to you,” he pleaded hoarsely.

“Really? Are you sure? OK, then. Well, as soon as we got into the hotel room we were all over each other. He almost ripped my dress off me and started grabbing my tits with one hand and fingering my pussy with the other. Only he didn’t call it my pussy, he called it my ‘wet little fuck slit’, and, yes, it really was wet. Dripping wet. Much wetter than I ever get with you.”

Mitch gasped again, and Kirsty realized he was about to spurt, so she took her hand away.

“You like that, didn’t you? Hearing that I got wetter with Richard than I do with you?”

“Yes, god, yes, Kirsty… go on, don’t stop telling.”

“I unzipped his trousers and sucked his cock. There. I never do that to you, do I? How does that make you feel? And it was huge. About ten inches I should think. I couldn’t get it all in my mouth. And then I told him.”

Kirsty began to stroke Mitch’s penis again. She was beginning to enjoy this. To enjoy the power of humiliating her husband with her words.

“Do you want to know what I told him?” Kirsty purred. “Be very sure before you answer.”

“Tell me!”

“I told him how much bigger his cock was than my husband’s… than yours, in other words.”

She felt, once again, that Mitch was going to ejaculate, and once again removed her hand, leaving him on the edge, twitching and desperate.

“Shall I tell you how Richard reacted?” Kirsty asked, now with an edge of cruelty in her voice. “He laughed. No, correction, we both laughed. And then he said he would open me up, and that was when he fucked me the first time. I was still fully clothed, apart from my dress, and he pushed aside the gusset of my lacy black panties and filled my hole. And I do mean filled it. How does that make you feel?”

Mitch said something incomprehensible, but his bulging cock told Kirsty all she needed to know, and she lightly grasped it between her fingers again, hardly moving them so as to keep him on the edge.

“After the first fuck, we lay and talked for a while. Do you know what about? He wanted to know about my sex life with you. So I told him about your little Sunday morning fumblings. How you pull up my cotton nightie and dab your little cock in me for a few minutes until you come. And we both laughed again. Then I started to massage his cock, and he quickly got hard and was ready to do me again. Shall I tell you what I said to him?”

“Yes, tell me, I have to know,” Mitch exclaimed.

“I said I needed to be fucked again by a real man, who could satisfy me and stretch me, not like my husband. I asked him, no, I begged him, to take me from behind, doggie-style, and told him you never did that because the only time we tried your cock slipped out of me because it was too small.”

As she said these cruel words, Kirsty gripped her husband’s penis more tightly, and wanked him with full strokes of her hand, guessing what the consequence would be. She was right. He spunked great globs of semen, more than she had ever known him produce before, all over her black satin slip.

As her husband groaned and panted, trying to recover, Kirsty found herself laughing at him. She knew she would never feel the same about him, now that he had debased himself before her. She left him and went to the bathroom, stripping off her lingerie, smirking as she dropped her semen-spattered slip into the laundry hamper. Then she enjoyed a long, hot shower, carefully bathing the puffy lips of her vulva, and washing away the congealed semen from her bush.

Naked and dripping with water, she walked to the bedroom and stood for a while in front of the mirror, admiring her taut body and noticing the bites and scratches her lover — she lingered over that word, repeating it to herself — her lover had left. Then she chose a light blue sleeveless summer dress from the wardrobe, which she put on over some simple white cotton knickers. She didn’t bother with a bra, enjoying the weight of her boobs swinging unsupported.

She came back down to the kitchen, where Mitch was slumped at the table, his face in his hands.

“So what happens now?” he asked, looking up. “Are you leaving me?”

“Do you want me to?”

“No.”

“This thing with Richard. It’s not going to end, you know. He says that whenever he is up here, he wants to use me as his fuck slut. His words. And sometimes I’ll go to see him in London, if his wife is away. And I expect there will be other men, too. You see he has ruined me, for you. I don’t want to go back to your little Sunday morning fumbles. I want to be fucked properly, by real men with big cocks. Men who know how to handle themselves — and how to handle me. And now I know that you want that for me, too, right?”

“You’ll tell me though? I mean, like today? It makes me so jealous, but… well, you saw what it did to me.”

“Yes, I saw. And I thought it was pretty pathetic. As for telling you stuff, I don’t know. I’m not going to let you turn me into some kind of porn star, describing my sex life for your entertainment. But, yes, maybe sometimes. If it amuses me. Or maybe I will send you texts, telling you what I am doing or am about to do. Pictures, even, of what I’m wearing. We’ll see. No promises.”

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32