A Tale of Immorality Ch. 02byangiquesophie©
Chapter Two: A Note Of Deceit.
Were you ever in my position?
I don't think so. But I am certain you have an opinion about me. Most probably it isn't a very good one.
I am Anne.
Maybe we've met. I am married and love to fuck other men without my husband knowing. I have been doing that for quite a while. I feel no guilt about it. And I have no intention of stopping.
Do I love my husband? I really think I do.
Don't laugh. I know it must sound ridiculous. Everybody knows you can't love a person and fuck around on him — or her. So surely I couldn't love my husband.
But is everybody right?
They must be. Go watch your typical Hollywood movie. Or tune in to just about any TV romance. You hear violins. That's when you know you're in love. Especially women. You feel it and you know. And if you know, you're supposed to forsake all others.
You told the minister, remember?
So if you love, you don't cheat. And if you cheat, you can't love. What's the problem? The problem is that I love to cheat and I still believe I love my George.
"Aha!" you may say. "That's easy. It can't be real love, then."
Sigh. You may be right. My problem is that no one ever told me what real love is. Did anyone ever tell you?
They told me which mushrooms are poisonous and which ones are not. They told me where to cross the street. They explained to me why I shouldn't smoke. And why I should use condoms. But they never told me what love is. How it feels. How it tastes.
So how should I know what love is? Or — to put it differently — how could you know that my love for George cannot be real?
I know what you think.
You think I am trying to wriggle out. That I am conjuring up clever words, like a slick lawyer. You think that I try to serve myself, my petty lust, my greedy needs, just to make seem right what really is wrong.
I know how it looks to you. You may even be right. But could I care less? It is my problem, isn't it?
And it's my love.
After that first time with Antoine I never stopped.
Oh, don't get me wrong, I didn't fuck Antoine again. The thought didn't even occur to me. Not to me. To him, it sure did. He kept after me for weeks. But somehow I knew that one time was the limit.
It was always that way with the men I fucked. Well, almost always. It is the newness and the firstness that makes cheating special to me.
And acceptable, I guess.
When I look back at my adventures — trysts, flings, affairs, whatever you want to call them — I don't see them as a chain of sleazy sex bouts. Not at all. At some times the sex wasn't even much more than a bonus.
One time there wasn't even sex at all.
I see it as one of those little fan-like booklets you get at a paint shop. A spectrum of colors that runs from blue through green through yellow and red. Each time had a distinct flavor for me. A certain smell or taste can bring them back. Like swallowing an oyster.
A sound can do it too.
The guy I met after Antoine was a concert pianist. He was in his young forties, very attractive. He had fled from Russia and was by now a rather well-known performing artist. His name was Wasilly, "call me Wes." We met through a PR plan I had developed. I organized a series of concerts at the local music hall. We not only added our firm's name to the happenings, we also turned them into culinary events. Antoine did the food.
Oh yes, maybe you forgot.
I work with this catering firm that also has a fast growing chain of delicatessens throughout the state. And beyond. I do marketing and PR.
Wasilly and I met twice.
It was always in the company of the concert hall's producers and my assistant. When we had a drink after the second meeting, he took me aside and invited me to a concert he was giving in Chicago.
I was pleasantly surprised when he had a limo pick me up at the airport. The driver took me to the Drake Hotel, where a suite had been booked for me. It was breathtakingly beautiful with a glorious view of the lake.
At the center of the room stood a grand piano. On it lay a single rose. It reflected in the deep shine of the lacquer. There was also a card telling me how welcome I was. He had excused himself for having to rehearse all day for the concert that night. I was asked to relax. I would be picked up for the concert around 7:30 p.m. He was looking forward to having a late supper with me afterwards.
You see now that it was much more than "just sex"?
I had tea in the gorgeous lobby and I strolled along the Magnificent Mile. Then I returned to my suite to sink into the bath and ponder what to wear.
Well, I wasn't really pondering.
I knew what I'd wear. I just had to work up the courage to do it. You see, before I left for Chicago I had bought this slinky, deep red velvety dress with a daring plunge, front and back. It was ankle-length and hugged my body very nicely.
The point is it could only be worn without a bra.
Another point was that I had never shown myself in public without one. I don't have huge breasts. And they don't really need the support. But they are large enough to do this telltale jiggling when given their freedom. And they have quite spectacular nipples. Nosy little rascals. They love to come out and play when all that jiggling and rubbing wakes them up.
After getting dressed and made up, I walked over to a tall mirror.
I had never seen myself like this. I'd never dared. But I knew I should have. I looked good. Sexy, yes. Sexy from my shining red lips down to my cleavage. From the curves of my hips down to the slit that showed a leg and the stiletto heels that made me stand tall.
But it was a high class kind of sexy. Subtle and tasteful. Classy enough to make me swallow my fear. "Damn, you look good, Anne," my voice whispered in a breathless way.
The sound made my nipples swell.
Did I feel guilty? George had never seen me like this. I had never dressed for him this way. Yes, of course I felt guilt. For two seconds, to be precise. And it annoyed me. For this wasn't for George. It wasn't even for Wasilly.
It was for me.
My cell phone rang.
"Yes, darling, me too. So glad to hear your voice."
"Oh yes, the journey was good…no problems."
"Don't worry. They are very hospitable."
"The Drake, yes. Mmmmm, George. We should come here together soon. Such a lovely place."
"Ah, well, dinner somewhere, I guess. They pick me up."
"I know. Me too."
"Must leave, love. I'll call you."
"Yes, me too, George."
"Me too…bye love."
My finger and thumb left my right nipple. The aroused flesh strained against the velvet.
I looked down on the stage from the box to which they had ushered me.
The orchestra was tuning up. It created the chaotic forest of sounds that never fails to stir up feelings of anticipation. I just love to be rocked by this ocean of strings. When I close my eyes I see a seascape. I hear seagulls — clarinets and flutes. I feel the deep, low ground-swell of cello's and bassoons.
I really love music.
At the center of the stage was a grand piano. It stood alone and slightly raised. Its polished lacquer reflected the myriad of lights. There lay a single rose on its keyboard. Seeing it took my breath away.
Ah, definitely…this was so much more than sex.
The hall filled slowly with well-dressed people. Women in gowns, men in suits, even tuxedos. A warm and festive murmur rose to my elevated position. I found binoculars and started observing people. I saw a gorgeous blonde on the arm of a gray tycoon. I spied on the first violinist. And I took in the rose on the piano.
A silence fell.
Then applause welcomed the artists. The conductor was old and fragile. His hair was thin and white. The program told me he was famous and Russian. To his right walked Wasilly. He looked great. Just watching him sent a flush to my cheeks.
I felt special.
The conductor took his place in front of the orchestra. Wasilly went to the piano. He sat down. Then he took the rose. He smelled it and looked straight up to where I was sitting.
My face was on fire.
Only then did I see the young girl behind Wasilly. She was tiny and gorgeous. Chinese, maybe, or Japanese. Her skin shone pale and flawless in the spotlights. There was a lot of it showing, as she wore a strapless dress. Her hair was long, straight and bluish black.
She had the face of a doll.
Her task obviously was to turn Wasilly's pages while he played. It must sound silly, but I envied her. I even felt jealous of their closeness.
Wasilly only played until intermission. So as people rose to applaud and cheer him, a young man took me from my box down to an elegant room at the back of the stage. He offered me a glass of champagne and asked me to wait.
Wasilly came rushing in. His face reflected his excitement. There was a huge bouquet in his arms. It must have been handed to him during the applause.
He hugged me, crushing the flowers between us. His lips were all over my face until they found mine. We kissed passionately. "Welcome," he said with his cute accent. "So wonderful of you to come."
Over his shoulder I saw the petite Asian girl. She stood next to the door. Her eyes were down. There was a blush on her cheeks.
"Please meet little Ling," Wasilly said with a wide smile. "She is my very special page-turner."
I have had sex with women before.
Even as early as high school I had been with girls. It was never a big thing. It felt natural and I still think it is. Making love to a girl is often just a seamless extension of affection. We share emotions so much easier than we do with men. Even after marrying George it was sometimes the natural nightcap after an evening of fun and gossip with a girl friend.
But I had never done a threesome.
I felt shocked when Wasilly proposed it over dinner. The girl never blushed. She only smiled her tiny Asian smile. What really confused me was the nature of my shock. I felt jealous.
Okay, laugh. Wife is cheating on husband and feels jealous of lover.
I guess Wasilly saw my embarrassment. For a man he is very sensitive. His hand covered mine. "Shall I send her away, sweetheart?" he whispered. "I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable."
I smiled. Then I caressed his face and said: "No, Wasilly. I know you want it. I won't spoil your evening." My other hand was on his crotch by then. I squeezed his cock. It didn't disappoint me.
Wasilly smiled. "Ling!" he said. The girl looked up. He only nodded. To my amazement the sweet doll slid off her chair into the damask tent of our tablecloth. My eyes widened. Wasilly grinned. Tiny hands ran up my legs. They pushed up my dress.
They also pushed my thighs apart.
A bolt of fire flashed up from my cunt as a velvet vice closed over it. The strong little eel that swam up my vagina made me swallow a surprised moan. A fingertip expertly rubbed my clit.
Deep blushes climbed out of my décolleté.
I won't ever forget that night.
Wasilly and his trained little page-turner were the most incredible team of lovers that ever spoiled me. Her body was like a girl's. It was soft and strong, tight and luscious. Her energy was endless.
And there was nothing she wouldn't do gladly.
We started kissing and grabbing in the elevator. After the massive orgasm Ling had given me under the table, I had two more before we even reached the bed.
Wasilly fucked the girl's little ass as she ate me out. And after she sucked him back to impressive life, he did me on the grand piano. His cock was longer and fatter than any I had felt before. Between it and the Chinese's wriggling tongue, I jumped from one climax to another.
When I awoke the next morning, I was alone.
The bed was a ruin. The sheets felt sticky. So did my skin. My nipples wore little crowns of love bites. My cunt lips were puffy and sore to the touch. My ass hole felt stretched.
I crawled to the bathroom.
Then my cell phone rang. It took me a while to find it. By then the voice mail had taken over. George's soft and friendly voice shocked me. I hadn't thought of him since yesterday's call. He said he wished me a great day. And that he loved me. It made me moan. My nipples throbbed.
"I love you," I whispered.
Then I sat down on the porcelain toilet and flushed out Wasilly's sperm.