A Most Unwanted Present

"Fuck me, you dirty fuckin' bastard," she snorted, knickers taut as piano wire between her shins. The blonde groaned and gulped and thrust back at me knock-kneed, fingernails like talons clawing at the paintwork. "Come," she gasped. "Come in me. Fill me with that stuff."

"But," I grunted in response, "your husband..."

"He doesn't touch me. He's watching footie," Terri snarled back. "God," she wailed, head lolling, "just come inside me. Feeling you do it will get me there too."

So I did and, as predicted, she got there as well. I squirted my desire into her, with Terri wailing and grunting and letting me know in a torrent of sewer language that she was, indeed, in the throes of a very satisfying climax.

Terri eventually finished juddering and moaning, gasping about how much she loved to feel my dick splitting her open, about how she adored my jizm pouring into her.

Then she abruptly hauled up her knickers, turned, kissed me an extremely ardent goodnight, and was gone.

"I could feel your spunk sliding out of me for the rest of the evenin'," the blonde informed me a day or two later. "I could smell you coming up from between my legs," she added, that evil gleam in her eye. "I had to rub myself off again. I sat on the toilet and played with my pussy as the cum slid out."

On that occasion, when she left my flat, brimming with semen and smiling like the proverbial cat -- well, she did get the cream -- Terri left a souvenir: the knickers she'd worn the night her hubby had watched football and she'd visited my place. The underwear, black and insubstantial, was stained with snail trails of dried semen, silvery smears of spunk that had leaked out of her afterwards.

That was how it was with Terri: deliciously sordid. I couldn't help myself.

When it had first started I'd somehow known it would end badly, which it did, just not in the manner I'd expected.

Christmas Eve and there was a knock at the door. It took me by surprise, sort of. I hadn't been expecting Terri, after all it was the day before Christmas and I was sure her husband was finishing work early. Still, it wouldn't be an unprecedented move on her part.

But when I answered the door, if I'd been anticipating Terri, I was in for a surprise.

He stood there, his presence sending a sinker of anxiety plummeting into the pit of my stomach.

"I need a word," her husband said.

***

I played the old game of deny-deny-deny, or would have if he'd questioned me outright, which he didn't. Instead, what he did, standing in the hallway because there was no way I was letting him into my flat, was confuse me by saying, "I've got a new job."

What was I supposed to say to that? I t seemed random in the extreme. I didn't know anything about the man -- I hadn't wanted to. I'd purposely never asked Terri anything about her situation. Most of my reticence was due to shame. It didn't seem right to ask about the man, not since I was tupping his wife on a fairly regular basis: almost daily in fact.

With him standing there the embarrassment rolled over me in a hot wave. I could barely stand to look at him.

But why was he telling me he had a new job?

I was still trying to make sense of this statement when he added, "New city." His head jerked in what I assume was the direction of this unknown metropolis. "On my own. I'm leaving her. She's all yours."

He grinned at me after delivering this jaw-dropping snippet. It wasn't a pleasant look: a smile like a knife blade, which is what I imagined him reaching for when he suddenly reached into his pocket.

I flinched and he sniggered at my involuntary response.

With derision in his tone he scoffed, "What ... you think I've got a shooter or something?" Rolling his eyes in contempt, he added, "You ain't that lucky." Then he carried on smirking that awful smirk.

"I ... I don't know what you mean," I spluttered, wondering just what it was he had in his hand. It looked like a digital thermometer to me, a plastic stick and its purpose unknown.

Disingenuously I played it dumb. "Why are you telling me all this?" I asked. "Don't you live down the hall? Haven't you just moved in?"

He made the tutting sound again, eyes rolling once more. "Come off it," he responded. "You know who I am; you know how long I've lived here." This was accompanied by a snicker like a drain unblocking. "You've been shagging my missis for the past three months." He held up a hand, palm facing me, his eyes closing when my mouth opened to utter the denial. "Don't bother, mate," he said. Then the grin was back as he eyed me again.

I definitely didn't like that smirk. It was as though he knew something dirty about me -- apart from the obvious that is. It was like he knew a nasty secret, something unpleasant.

"Timing," the man said.

"What?" I replied, totally confused by that comment and the ones preceding it. What was it with him and these random blurts?

"Well," he said, shrugging. "I was just gonna bugger off and leave the pair of you to it. She's easy to get, isn't she?"

Before I could respond he was continuing with, "I couldn't believe my luck when I first met her. I mean, you've seen Terri..."

He snorted at that and shook his head. "Of course you have, you've fucked her, too.

"Well, when I first met her and she fucked my brains out I couldn't believe it. A stunner like her...?" His cheeks ballooned as though still unable to believe his luck at snagging such a hottie. Then he became rueful, his expression changing. Bitterly, he snapped, "She's easy to get but fucking impossible to keep. Every bloke I know has tried to get into her knickers, and most of 'em managed it, too. She loves the attention. Terri can't get enough men to look at her. Trouble is she loves cock as well. Can't get enough dick."

That's when he brought his gaze up from the carpet, from where it had rested during his tale of less-than-marital-bliss. The smirk was back when he, with some delight it seemed, told me: "You know she's been fucking the postman as well, hey?" He chuckled when my expression answered his question. "No? Fucking hell, fancy that. Bit of a cliché, isn't it, though? "I mean," he scoffed, "the fucking postie! She would've boned the milkman as well, if there still was such a thing.

"Anyway, I was just gonna leave her high and dry." His grin slipped at that moment, his face revealing the anguish I was responsible for -- at least in part. "Should have left her years ago."

The last was delivered quietly, as though he was talking to himself rather than me. When he carried on his voice came from somewhere distant. "Or I shoulda never gotten so caught up with her in the first place."

Sighing, he blinked into my face. "Love," he said, voice somewhat strangled. "I just loved her too much. Denied it to myself ... That my wife was a slut, I mean." Then he shook himself and sniffed a bit, swallowing down the obvious grief.

It was gut-churning to look at him. If I could have turned back the clock...

But, apparently recovered the man held out the thermometer thing. "Anyway, I was just going to leg it and let her sink -- or whatever. But I found this today." He held up the device. "Couldn't believe it. It looks like it's a toss-up between you and the postie." His eyes narrowed and his face went all foxy, like a sly bookie calculating a bet. "My money'd be on you though. You're the one who's shagged her the most these last few weeks." Shrugging again, he added, "But she might have bent over for a couple of others in the meantime.

"Knowing Terri, I wouldn't be surprised."

I blinked at what he held in his hand, the truth of it ice cold in my chest when I recognised just what it was.

That thin blue line in the tiny window confirmed my awful fears.

"Nice little pressie to leave you with at Christmas, innit? You get the girl and the bun she's baking in the oven."

When he thrust the pregnancy test kit at me I took it without thinking.

"So, well, me bag's all packed and I've got a taxi coming to take me to the station. By-the-way, she's got no money of her own and the rent's due New Year's Eve." He turned to leave, with me standing there, jaw dangling, that damning plastic stick in my numb fingers.

"Oh," he flung back over his shoulder. "If I was you though, mate ... I'd get a fucking paternity test ... Just to make sure."

Then he winked and actually gave me a cheery wave, his parting remark coming on a wink. "Merry Christmas," he said.