The Cuckold Waltz Ch. 3

Amanda? Ah, Amanda! Where did that begin? A year and a bit ago I was in a job that didn't pay that well. But I enjoyed it. Tightly in charge of a monthly magazine, with a small band of dedicated contributors - who could actually write and also understood the meaning of the words 'copy deadline - I was a happy bunny.

Jackie, on the other hand, was rapidly climbing the corporate ladder and wasn't all that chuffed that I seemed happy enough grubbing about at the bottom of the publishing food chain (on our magazine we mixed metaphors all the time). She wanted me to have a job that reflected our - or, to be more accurate, her - high-flying status.

And so it came to pass that she returned from work one fine evening and announced that her new boss, the improbably named Barrington Leeke Thornton (referred to, apparently, by one and all as 'BLT') had a wife who was about to launch an up market glossy and was busy putting a team together. I felt the noose tightening.

At the interview, my potential employer cast hardly a glance at me. There was clearly a mutual admiration, though. She was extremely impressed with my bulging portfolio. For my part, I was extremely impressed with her tits. And they were clearly genuine - unlike my portfolio, which had been boosted by the inclusion of magazines listing me as 'contributing editor', when my only contribution had been to thumb listlessly through the finished product. Editor friends had been generous in giving me credit where none was due – as I'd been happy to do for them in the past. The moral of that story? Never trust a writer's CV.

A dead dyslexic dingo with a drink problem could have done my new job, for the simple reason I had nothing to do. I had, bizarrely, been earmarked as 'an ideas man', but at the daily editorial meetings any suggestion I made was met with a curt: "No, I don't think so," from my deliciously leggy and superior. I could have promised her an exclusive that would double the circulation and she would still have swatted it aside without pausing for breath.

In those meetings she never once looked at me and quite quickly I succumbed to the simple, if childish, pleasures of trying to look up her, usually short, skirt while grunting assent to some asinine suggestion from one of her favourites, about 'fly-fishing being the new rock and roll' or 'black being the new black'. Within a day or two I'd made sure that I sat in the seat most likely to afford me the least restricted view and the rewards for my voyeuristic endeavours were increasingly good.

Despite the warmth of early spring - the kind of days that promise a long balmy summer and then, in England, fail to deliver - she always wore stockings. By adopting an almost Quasimodo-like pose that was meant to mimic seriously intense concentration, I was occasionally treated to a thrilling accidental flash of knickers. The meetings blurred around me and the world was reduced to the space between the milky white thighs of my boss. If Doctor Samuel Johnson didn't say: 'When a man is tired of looking up a woman's skirt, he is tired of life', he certainly should have done.

By the second week the weather had returned to normal but still she arrived at work each day in a short, tight skirt, usually black, and a cleavage-hugging white blouse. There was a change in the way she sat at the table during the morning meetings. She was now almost side-on to me, so I no longer needed to look as if I had slipped a disc to get a view up her skirt. By midweek she'd hold the knicker-flashing pose for a minute or two and then slowly close her legs and smooth her skirt down. I couldn't be sure if she was doing it accidentally or deliberately, either to turn me on or to make a fool of me in front of everyone. I could imagine her leaping to her feet mid-meeting and denouncing me as a pervert and then having security frog-march me from the building after they'd tattooed the damning words: 'Sexual Harrasser' across my forehead.

In a week and a half she'd only said: "No, James, I don't think so" to me half a dozen times. No other words had she uttered and not once had she made eye contact. Perhaps I was invisible to her and she thought she was opening her legs to an empty chair. I just sat and said nothing; speaking no evil, hearing no evil and seeing a generous slice of silky knickers.

The Friday morning meetings, I was told, were always held on a Friday afternoon. No, I don't know why either. After a couple of pints and a bite to eat in a local, recently trendified bar the editorial staff braved the brutal wind that cut in from the north east and piled back to work. Telltale bumps on Amanda's skirt proved that, despite the cold, she was wearing the black stockings that I had come to depend on for my harmless kicks.

First into the conference room as usual, I sprinted to my grandstand seat awaiting the show. The others sauntered in and took up their seats before Amanda breezed in and plonked herself down in her big leather swivel chair. Her legs were parted slightly. As my eyes wandered down her body, the thighs opened a little more and then stayed apart. When I managed to readjust my focus I realised that I was staring at bare cunt. Fucking hell, I thought, I've heard of dress down Friday but this is ridiculous! Her legs stayed slightly splayed as I feasted my eyes on her. She wasn't completely shaven, but sported only a hint of hair that was little more than a furry sticking plaster. I felt my mouth water and had to swallow hard. Dribbling down my shirt and tie wouldn't have looked all that smart.

I was teetering on the edge of my seat, about to slide off, when I heard her say: "Any ideas, James?" After a pause, I heard myself - at first I thought it was someone impersonating me - say: "Knickers. How has the fact that more and more women have stopped wearing knickers affected the sales for people like M&S?" Nope, no idea at all why I said that.

There was a collective stiffening round the room at that. However, this was almost totally a stiffening of shoulders. I was the only one whose cock was stiff. Hearing my own words reverberate round the room, my head jerked back from the triangle between her legs. Perhaps no-one else knew what I could see but they all sensed I shouldn't have said it.

There was a pause, one so pregnant the obstetrician would have advised that the baby be induced. Amanda sort of grunted. She fixed me with what I took to be a glare and: "Right, James, we'll talk about that after the meeting!"

Shit, I thought, less than a fortnight in the job and I'm out on my arse. Jackie's going to love that! I glanced around the smug faces gathered round the table, seeing them all think 'Ha! That's you fucked, Mr. So-Called Ideas Man!" At least I'd made the day for a few people. I was so pissed off at my impending sacking that I couldn't even bring myself to stare at my soon to be erstwhile boss's cunt. And besides, a quick glance down confirmed my suspicion that she had snapped her legs closed anyway. My guess was that she'd seen me looking when I mentioned knickers and the P45 would land on my desk at the same time as the sexual harassment suit.

So taken was I with thoughts of doom, gloom and the dole queue that I was only roused from my reverie by the sound of chairs scraping on the too-polished wooden floor. The rest of them filed out to do whatever it was they pretended to do on a Friday afternoon.

Amanda was looking at me, in what you could only describe as 'a funny way'.

She murmured in her dark and honeyed voice: "I see you were looking up my skirt, James."

"I can explain," I said, without the hint of an explanation in my head. "It was…" Silence.

"Did you like what you saw?"

Now, what kind of a trick fucking question was that? Was I going to be sacked for liking it, not liking it or having no opinion? "I…" Good, non-committal start, I thought and then I realised I had nowhere to take the 'I' somewhere. It dangled in the air between us like a noose on Viagra. "I…" I began again, just in case she'd forgotten the first 'I'.

She held up her hand. I, grateful for the chance to avoid adding a third eye, fell silent. I stared out the window and watched small grey clouds scud across bigger grey clouds. Bastard English summers, I thought glumly.

"Did you enjoy looking at my cunt, James?"

Jesus! Hang on a minute, that's not the kind of question I'd expected. I couldn't imagine her saying at the tribunal: "And when I asked the defendant if he liked looking at my cunt, he refused to answer." This was definitely going somewhere else. Maybe, just maybe, it was going somewhere very nice. Nod, James, I said to myself. Half a minute or so later my brain delivered the nod message.

She patted the table beside her. Even I realised she wanted me to sit next to her. I perched, nervously.

Then she smiled and I recognised the smile. It was friendly - and I'd really thought Amanda didn't 'do' friendly. She pushed her chair a little way back from the desk and the smile grew. "You've been staring at my knickers for a fortnight. I thought you deserved a treat."

For some reason I thought about Every Good Boy Deserves something or other from schooldays. It was a way of remembering some science thing, or a music thing, or some 'thing'. Buggered if I could remember it. Next thing, I couldn't have remembered my own name. Amanda had allowed the skirt to slide up her thighs – and, let's face it, it didn't have a lot of sliding to do. Her legs parted slowly and the close-cropped cunt was deliciously exposed to my view once more. Only this time it was inches from my face.

"Does my cunt look nice, James?"

Half-minute delayed nod from me.

To the side of the thin strip of hair was a tattoo. A flower of some sort, don't ask me what. I was too busy with the realisation that not only could I see her, I could smell her. She noticed me inhale, even though I tried to hide the fact.

"Does my cunt smell nice, James?"

Another satellite delayed nod.

"Do you think my cunt would taste nice, James?"

No delay this time.

She spread her legs still further, raised her forefinger to the level of her tits and then let it point downwards. She smiled. "Well, lick my cunt, you dirty bastard."

Well, what was I supposed to do? A man has to do what a man has to do when it comes to keeping the boss happy. With a heavy heart (all right, even I don't believe that) I dropped to my knees and buried my face between her thighs.

I should have registered the fact that the door could open at any moment and a horrified member of staff might wander blithely in, but I was too busy pushing my tongue into her and sliding a finger in as well. She moaned a little then, so I decided the introduction of a finger into her arse might not go amiss. As the finger slipped in, she pushed hard against me. I got the impression that she was fairly satisfied with my work. Maybe a pay rise wasn't out of the question.

I was drowning in cunt by now. I slid another finger in as my tongue flicked against her clit. The two fingers sought out her G-spot as my tongue found its rhythm. My cock was crushed against the belt of my trousers and my knees were being rubbed raw. I wasn't sure how long I could keep it up. Amazingly, though, after only a couple more minutes Amanda gave out a strangled groan and came over my face. A moment's elation gave way to the realisation that the reason she had come so quickly was the thought that someone could come into the office at any moment rather than my expertise at licking cunt.

After her orgasm she sighed and smoothed down her skirt. She smiled and rose from the chair. I noticed that the leather was slick with her juice. I thought that was it for the day, but she bent over the table, did the short hitching of the skirt and presented her delectable arse to me.

"Now I need some cock," she said over her shoulder.

"What if someone comes in?" I whimpered. "Won't we get into trouble?"

She snorted at that. "James, I'm the fucking boss. If anyone walks in, I'll sack them. Now, get it up me at once!"

I like to oblige. I'd like to say that I fucked her for hours until she had to be carried out on a stretcher with her legs set in splints to prevent further chaffing, but I can't. I lasted no more than three of fours minutes. I don't feel bad about that; you haven't seen her arse.

When I came so quickly she shrugged off the disappointment. "First night nerves, eh?" she asked with an eyebrow raised somewhere between patronising and sympathetic.

I gestured at the door. "You know," I said, hoping that would be enough.

"Huh!" she said, which could have meant anything, and opened her briefcase and sought out a tissue. Almost business-like, she pulled one out and dabbed mechanically between her thighs. "Better get rid of the worst of it," she smiled. Then she tossed the spunk-laden tissue into a wastepaper basket across the room. It landed straight in the middle. She laughed.

Her pulled her skirt up again. "Much cum left?"

There was a small trail down her left thigh. "A Bit," I said. I didn't know how much was 'much'.

"Right!" She said. "Off you go! Write the knickers story. I might even use it. Oh, and James…next time you fuck me make it last a bit longer, will you?"

And I did. And I was as happy as I ever had been. I had my beloved Jackie at home and I had the insatiable Amanda at work (and in the car, and the toilets at the bar, and the park, and in country hotels, and town hotels and almost anywhere it was physically possible). And then there was what I now term a 'development'.

It was a Thursday, almost midnight. Jackie was home that evening, entertaining some arseholes from work. Clients, perhaps, I'm not sure. I thought they were all wankers anyway. I had spent the evening with Amanda. We'd driven out to a drab dormitory town where Amanda, short-skirted and sans underwear, wanted to indulge her exhibitionist nature. We'd fucked about three times and she went home dripping with spunk. I went home sore and exhausted, having taken her exhortation to 'last longer next time' to heart.

Jackie was in the bathroom cleaning her teeth. She was feeling horny and I knew I'd have to perform when I went up. Just as I was wondering if I could rise to the occasion, the phone rang. It was Amanda. I knew something was wrong. She was under strict instructions never to phone at home. Now, although Amanda isn't the type of woman you can give instructions to unless she wants you to tell her what to do, she isn't reckless enough to phone when the wife is at home.

"What's wrong?" I asked, panic levels shooting through the roof.

She purred. "Nothing wrong, darling. Nothing wrong at all. Something lovely, actually, something really lovely…and really filthy."

Jesus, Amanda, I thought. This isn't the time for telling me filthy things, not when the wife could lean over the banister at any moment demanding to know 'who's on the phone at this time of night'.

"What is it?" I asked through gritted teeth. She might have been my boss, not to mention a dirty bitch, but there's a time and a place and this was neither.

Ignoring the tension in my voice she said: "Well, when I got home, cum running down my thighs and my skirt up around my arse, guess who was home?"

Jesus! BLT was meant to be at a conference; the excrement and cooling appliance had definitely collided. But she sounded so casual, so unconcerned. I knew she was a bit mental, but this time she'd clearly lost the plot entirely.

"And?"

"And, as I was bending over in front of the fridge for the lemon, he came up behind me and put his hands between my thighs. I didn't even know he was back…it could have been a burglar for all I knew…"

"And?" I was shitting myself now.

"And…and he said that I was obviously very horny tonight, and was I after some 'satisfaction'? I thought, well, why not? We hardly ever fuck now my little James has learned how to do it properly."

"Amanda, is this going to turn out badly?" I asked, gripping the telephone table in an effort to still the shaking.

"Listen!"

Don't ask me why but I just nodded. I still haven't really got used to the idea that people on the phone can't actually see you.

"I said yes, I was feeling very horny and fancied a nice bit of cock. I was still bending over the fridge when I heard him unzip his trousers. Of course, I was so open that I hardly felt his prick slide up me at all. He pumped away for a while and filled me with his cum. Now, was that the fourth or fifth helping of the evening, James? I've really lost count"

"So he didn't say anything?" I wasn't gripping so hard, so perhaps I was calming down. I heard Jackie emerge from the bathroom and pad across the landing to our bedroom – well, it was our bedroom then and stayed that way until she found the cunt-stained knickers in the kitchen the other night. I really had to go.

"Amanda, I really have to go."

"Wait until I finish!" She said, as she'd said so many times before. "Anyway, where was I? Ah yes, there I was full of your spunk and full of his. I like this, I thought. He went off to bed and I followed him. I thought to myself, do you know, Amanda, what I'd really like now is to have my dirty cunt licked out. I got into the bedroom while he was still awake…now, there's a first… and straddled his face. Like the obedient boy he is, he began licking me out…I do love that expression, so base, so working class…I came all over his fat little face within seconds. It was just the thought that your spunk was mixed in with his. It drove me wild.

"And then I just had to do it. I slid down him and kissed him on the lips. I could taste you! It was wonderful. He had a mouthful of your spunk and he didn't even know it! You and him mixed together. Hmmm! Delicious! I may even go up and fuck him again, just to taste you on him…Bye!"

It's another question that I can't answer, but, after she hung up, I was up the stairs and up Jackie within about forty seconds. If you asked me where the trouble started, I'd have to say it was that moment.

To be continued..