A Tale of Immorality Ch. 01byangiquesophie©
Chapter One: A Pinch Of Infidelity.
I am Anne. I am married, and I let other men fuck me.
No, that's not true. I should be honest with you — I enjoy fucking men other than my husband. I enjoy it tremendously.
My husband doesn't know. And I hope he never will. But please don't get me wrong — I feel no guilt about what I do. I even think I am doing him a favor.
One day he will discover my infidelity, of course. Someone may see me. Someone will talk. I may slip. A detail may give me away.
I fear that day.
I fear it partly because it would hurt him. I love him too much to see him hurt and lose him. But let me remain honest, at least to myself — I mostly fear discovery because it would put an end to my adventures.
I'd have to choose, and I hate choosing.
I love my husband. I love how we make love. But I also very much love to fuck around. I can't live with the one and not have the other. It would render me incomplete. And highly frustrated. For him I would become impossible to live with. Assuming he'd still want me, of course.
Yes, you frown.
I can see how you need to dismiss this as totally immoral. You really feel you have to boo me, don't you? I understand. You have no alternative. You have to reassure the world that you at least are morally pure. I can see how you would want to dump your indignation on me.
If only to save yourself.
Don't worry, go ahead. I do understand you. In your position I might even do the same. But please, if only for a few minutes: jump over your shadow. Unplug your ears and listen.
Things aren't always as Sunday school taught you, you know. Maybe they ought to be. But they just aren't. There's always some small thing that prevents righteousness from happening.
It's called "reality."
As I said, my name is Anne. No further name is needed.
My husband's name is George. We met at college, eleven years ago. He was tall and blonde. The tall part is still true, the blonde is getting thinner. I fell for him the first moment we met. He needed more time. We weren't even dating exclusively for the first year.
I was. He wasn't. Isn't that ironic?
At a party into our second year he saw the light. And I guess after that he never felt the urge to retire into the shadows again.
The first time we had sex was right after that party. I was drinking, so was he. It was just enough to get us past embarrassment, but not nearly enough to hamper our performance.
I was no virgin to sex. But I discovered that I was a virgin to good sex. To be quite accurate, on the narrow bed in my shared apartment I had my first real orgasm with a man.
George was great. Correction — he is great. He has this body you want to crawl into for sheer comfort and safety. And his mind won't ever allow things to turn everyday-dull. I love his voice. His eyes. The hard muscles of his tight butt.
And his cock.
What I did not know then — but know now of course — is that he has an average-sized cock. What I also know now is that with it he can bring me pleasures many larger men can only dream of in their machoest fantasies.
Sneer if you have to. But being with other men a lot doesn't always have to diminish a wife's respect for her husband. It doesn't for me.
George's secret is patience.
Patience is the rarest commodity in lovemaking, you know. I might even say that it is the crucial difference between love and sex. Patience to put your lover's needs first. To train your own stamina so that your lover may enjoy all the pleasures there are to be found.
George loves me very much.
In fact, he worships me with his love., but he also shames me with it. For although my love for him is immense, there will always be the love I have for myself as well.
I guess by now you have to reach over to a new box of judgments. Let me help you. It is under the S for selfishness.
As I said, I'll be honest with you — if you're looking for a perfect person, look elsewhere.
George and I were married for two years when it happened for the first time.
We had both found good jobs. He was working with an insurance company. They obviously appreciated him — he received substantial raises twice a year.
I worked at a fast growing string of delicatessen and catering shops. I did their marketing and PR. It wasn't just for the money. I liked the job. I liked being surrounded by people with great taste and adventurous spirits.
One of those spirits belonged to Antoine.
He was French Canadian and had been schooled in Lyon, France, by the famous Paul Bocuse. He was great fun to be with. He also became very passionate when it came to food and cooking.
Antoine lived alone and I guess it was his accent and his flamboyant style that made many people think he might be gay. I suppose that was why I had no qualms to say "yes" when he invited me to have dinner at his place. He said I was a woman with taste and he wanted to try out a new recipe.
George was out of town; my alternative was staying home alone — and being bored.
So I dressed nicely.
I was sure Antoine would set an almost professional table and I did not want to spoil the atmosphere by turning up in a casual outfit.
He met me at the door wearing a very stylish Italian suit over a simple white t-shirt. It looked great on him, yet very relaxed. I was glad I had decided at the last minute to wear my little black number. We matched admirably.
One look into his eyes told me Antoine wasn't gay. One more look showed me I was in trouble.
He took my wrap-around shawl and the bottle of wine I had brought with me. He asked me to turn around for him. I giggled and made a slow pirouette on my sling-back pumps. He whistled. Then he immediately apologized for being so bold. He took my hand. He breathed a kiss on it that felt like the wings of a bird. It made me shiver and giggle some more.
His apartment looked stylish, yet warm. It had the casual feeling of a bachelor's lair, but all the furniture, rugs and decorations had been selected with good taste. The dinner table was set in his large, open kitchen. It had spotless white linen on it, crystal glasses and a lot of soft glowing candles.
Before we sat down to eat, he poured a white wine. We struck up a conversation and forgot the time. Antoine told me about his years in France. It was all very witty and great fun.
When the first silence fell I saw that the chilled bottle was almost empty.
I felt I could not stop giggling. It irritated me, but Antoine seemed not to mind. On the contrary. Before I knew it we were on his couch together. Very together. His fingers caressed my flushed cheek. He told me how beautiful I was.
I giggled. We kissed.
The kiss woke me up. I pushed him away with a frown and a smile. He never winced, but reminded us that dinner couldn't wait a minute longer.
I went to the bathroom. His kiss still made my lips tingle. My legs felt like gum; they almost caused me to stumble on my heels. I'm sure he must have seen me.
At last I met my burning face in the mirror. Oh, my God. I dashed cold water into it, before returning. I decided to be friendly but distant, warm but weary, flirty but resolute.
When I walked back over his tastefully tiled floor, I saw it was paved with good intentions.
Antoine fucked me that night between a lovely dish of innocent quail and a dessert of peppered strawberry cream. When his perfect cock slid into my dripping cunt I realized that there had not been one moment I had wanted him to stop.
It started when I sat down at the round, cozy table.
He pushed the chair under me and lightly touched my bare shoulder. He left his hand there for just a split second. I felt the warmth sink into my skin. He must have noticed that I trembled.
As an appetizer we had oysters.
I had never eaten raw oysters before and told him about my reservations. He made a big show of converting me. It involved him sliding over to me while he rattled on about the excellent qualities of the slimy creatures. He squeezed some lemon. Then he added a drop of vinegar and red onion dressing. He asked me to throw my head back and to open my mouth.
His breath touched my ear.
"Close your eyes," he whispered. I did. The raw oyster slithered down my tongue. It sent a hundred tiny spider feet up and down my spine. The salty taste and the slippery texture were fraught with erotic innuendo.
I moaned when his mouth closed on mine. I moaned some more when his tongue dashed in to follow the oyster.
I just gasped when his hand touched my tit.
There were six oysters. Three for me, three for him. It took us a while.
When the last one had slithered down my gullet, Antoine did something shocking. He stood back and pulled up the spaghetti strap of my dress. It had slipped off my shoulder, exposing most of my left tit.
"I should not take advantage of your weakness, Anne. You have been drinking. You are a married woman. We work together. And of course there are the quail to attend to."
He grinned and stepped back to pour me some wine. Then he looked after the main dish.
I felt dazed.
My body was on fire. So was my mind. My panties must have been soaked by then. All thoughts of loyalty to George — and to be honest all thoughts of George, period — had been wiped from my mind until Antoine reminded me of my marriage.
I moaned. It sounded frustrated. He looked up and grinned.
The quail were buttery soft and mildly spicy.
He had had the good sense to remove their little heads before serving. It seems the French insist on showing them, so you know you won't be cheated into eating mere chicken. I guess I prefer being cheated upon.
Antoine fed me little morsels.
I complimented him on the excellent food. He smiled. His finger rested for just a while on my lower lip. I chewed on the succulent meat. I'd love to say it was accidental that I also sucked on his finger.
"You have such good taste," he whispered, smiling.
I smiled back and offered him a sliver of quail's breast in return. He grabbed my hand and took the food in with my fingers. He sucked.
"It is so easy to have good taste with you, Antoine," I said and smiled. We soon ended up kissing again.
I am afraid the poor little birds died in vain. They soon lay cold and abandoned on the beautiful table.
We were on the couch again, sharing tongues and undoing buttons. His mouth around my screaming nipples made me gasp.
His tongue on my exposed clit made me come.
Soon I knelt before him. His aroused cock throbbed against the palms of my caressing hands. My tongue licked the pearly drops from the shining head.
"Excellent taste," I murmured.
I knew I was hooked. Oh, not on Antoine. I was hooked on the difference. The new way he felt, sounded, tasted. The new and intense attention I received. I was hooked on the sudden rush of sheer youthfulness.
It was the firstness of it all, I guess. The never knowing what would be next. And there had not been one moment I had wanted him to stop. An unknown cock filled me. A man had spent days, maybe weeks in conquering me. He had gone out of his way to create these few moments.
It was exhilarating. Everything was. The way he touched me. The way he searched to find our rhythm. The way he made my body sing.
I came with him. It was one of the most special moments of my life.
Yes, yes. Go judge me. Call me insensitive. Call me any ugly name in the book. Make your impeccable righteousness known. But I'll stay stubbornly honest. Coming with Antoine that evening is one of my fondest memories.
Afterwards we just lay exhausted, panting, smiling.
Then I told him I had to leave.
He protested. The evening was young — there was still dessert, coffee, sweet chocolate bon-bons. But I knew it was over. I kissed him once more and thanked him. Then I collected my clothes.
The soaked panties went into my purse.
At the door he tried to kiss me once more, but I pressed my fingertips to his lips.
"Don't spoil it, Antoine."
I phoned George as soon as I was home.
I did it even before taking a shower. I feared it might be an awkward call, but it wasn't. I heard his voice and a warm feeling flushed my body.