Cheating Wife: Back Alley Bitch

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This is a stand-alone story. You do not need to read any other 'Cheating Wife' story of mine to understand this one.

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My Mama always told me that if you love what you do, it isn't work. If I got paid for what I most love to do, however, I'd get arrested. So I chose the next best option: if you can't do it, at least be near it.

My job also allowed me to be in costume, which conceptually I adore. Each day I dressed in scrubs, constrained my hair in a net, and hid most of my face behind a mask. I spoke few words, collected little cultural information, and ferried hope between rooms.

It's that hope that I love.

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From behind my mask I collected details. "Is this your name and date of birth?"



"It is." His voice – deep and strong – fit his body type perfectly. 



"How long have you abstained?"



"4 hours."



We have a prescribed response for an answer like this. "It is recommended that you wait 48 hours."



"I've heard."



With nothing further to add, I directed him into the room. "The specimen cup is on the table. Once complete, please flip the switch in room. When you have left, I will collect your sample."



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I was morbidly curious about this sample. 



After only 4 hours, his specimen jar held 18 mL! 5mL is normal, 10 mL is high, 18 mL is off the charts. In all my time at the clinic, I'd seen nothing like it. And the records kept tumbling. 



The number of motile sperm per milliliter in his sample was 417 million, far more than expected. All told, he left 7.5 billion swimming rays of hope with me. 



Now I felt bad for him – the reproductive problem was not with him. If his partner thought the problem wasn't hers, she was going to be sorely discomforted.

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She didn't give up though. He visited the clinic consistently enough to predict an eventual unhappy outcome. During this time his numbers remained fairly constant, but I changed the data collecting procedure.

"I'm sorry. I recognize you, but our new procedure requires that I check your name against your license. "He didn't put up a fight, I checked his name, and memorized his address.

And then I followed him. It took me less than a week of vacation time to determine his habits. From 7-3 he worked at Gold's Gym as a personal trainer, from 3-5 he visited a gentleman's club, and from 5 onward he did whatever it was he did at home. 



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At 3:25 I entered The Glass Slipper, identified him sitting near the stage, and made my way across the room. He looked at me, but did not recognize me. And how could he? 



Gone were my scrubs, and in their place I wore my favorite white Angel BodyWear dress. Its neckline plunges to an inch over my bellybutton, its back absent save for the crisscross tie, its full length stretching just slightly beyond my ass. 


He couldn't take his eyes off me. 


I walked slowly towards him, allowing him to see my ease in 4" high heels. My pumps were white, with a shocking red heel that matched perfectly my lipstick. A ribbon, too, holding my blonde hair in place, matched this color.

"Is this seat mine?" I asked.

"It is, if you're not a cop."



I assured him. "I'm not."

"And you're not working?"

"No. I'm not a prostitute."

"Then what are you doing here?"



I knew he'd accept any story I told. "My girlfriend and I had a bet, and now I'm supposed to blow a stranger." I maintained eye contact with him as he considered my words. I spoke before he could. "Are you feeling ... strange?"



"If you're serious, pretty lady, I'm feeling very strange."



I smiled at him. "I'm serious."



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He took my hand and led me toward the door. "Do you live close by?"



"No. And I'm not taking you home."

He kept us walking toward the door, as if stopping would change my plans.

"How about your car, then?"

"No, not there either."

"Well then where?" He asked, a little frustration rising in his voice.

"I don't care. All I need is a little space."

He hesitated to ask, but he was running out of ideas. "You cool with the alley?" 



I kept pace with him, and answered him sincerely. "That sounds perfect."



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The alley was filthy, but well hidden. He stopped, turned towards me, but I made the first move. With both hands resting upon his tight stomach, I pushed his back up against the wall.

I rested my ass on my heels, and grasped his belt. I stared him in his eyes. I undid his buckle, pulled the belt from his body, unbuttoned and then unzipped his pants, and pulled them beyond his hips. I used sufficient force to ensure that his boxers were similarly pulled from my goal. 



I caught his penis, mid flight, as it sprung forward. I was pleased that the delivery mechanism was as impressive as the product. He was long, thick, and hard – three of the best words to describe a man. 



I pulled the head my lips, but didn't allow it passage. I just stroked his cock, stared at him, and kept the head rested between my lips. He accepted this for a few minutes, but his patience fled, and my bull emerged.

He grabbed my hair and forced entry into my mouth. Grabbing him now between both hands, I let his own thrusts determine the stroke rate; I focused on sucking as much of him into my mouth as I could. His power was intoxicating, and our passion undeniable.

But his body was predictable, and each time he got close I pushed him away. I did this with my teeth, with a squeeze to the scrotum, or the plucking of a hair. Recognizing that his needs would not be met with me on my knees, he demanded: "Face the wall."



I protested just enough to ensure that he wouldn't pursue me later. "But ..."



"But nothing, face the fucking wall, I need this."



Continuing my act, I pleaded. "I shouldn't ... you can't ..." And then he did.

No time passed, and yet movement occurred. My panties were taken and discarded. My arousal was discovered, penetrated, and when two wet fingers were removed, the head of his penis took their place. His hands, rough and powerful, grasped my hips. He drove into me while pulling me to him.

His thrusts were rapid, extreme. My pain was bearable, but only because I had sought it out. My whole life, I had sought out this pain, this experience, this moment. My orgasm matched his, and he filled me with the hope I had been seeking. 



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We shared just a few additional moments. We straitened our clothes while our heart rates returned to human levels. In mock anger, I chose to leave first.

"Goodbye!"

"Goodbye." He replied. "Tell your friend how happy I am that you lost the bet."



There was no bet, of course. I walked away, now was not the time for words. Now was the time for hopeful thoughts, for dreams of unique combinations giving rise to perfection.