Beneath White Leather

The guy's wife was cute.

Some women look terrific, they know they look terrific, they carry themselves with confidence, they dress to show off the figure that they know is great, they flash their legs, their cleavage too, maybe their waist, depending on the weather, they wear their sexuality like a millionaire will wear their Cartier watch, or drive their Porsche. Not Mike's wife. Not the woman that I met that night. But she was cute. Extremely cute.

My first impression was that his wife was one of those women who do not realise just how cute they are. The kind who never think about how best to dress, or wear their make-up, or their hair. For whom that does not matter. So their clothes are not that sexy, maybe tops and jeans that do not really fit, or boring paisley patterns, or even tiny flowers, instead of leopard skin or snake, and always cotton, never silk or skin-tight lycra or risqué leather, none of those.

Mike's wife had made an effort just the same. She wore a dress that just about could be described as little, black, and, yes, a dress. But not too daring. Nothing much on show. No cleavage. The neckline was too high. But her breasts were full beneath the inexpensive polyester cotton, and her back and shoulders were still bare, her flesh pure white. No thigh was being bared. The hem was cut too low, right on the knee. But her calves were slender in the black nylons that she wore, and her butt was cute and shapely. She was definitely good enough to fuck.

I like cute. Maybe I should say, petite. Neat women turn me on, especially those with good sized breasts, trim waists, full hips. Pocket sized, but hourglass. Given the kind of height of woman that I like, maybe more a thirty-minute timer than a full sixty-minute hour. The same proportions, but the small-scale version, a woman you can lift onto your cock while standing her against a wall, or walk around the room, her legs around your waist, your hands beneath her butt, your cock lodged deep inside her cunt, the head nudging up against the inner recesses of her womb.

Mike's wife was definitely cute like that. She just seemed to be one of those second types of women, who did not know how cute she was, who had a look almost of naivety and innocence. At least, that was how she came across right then.

Not that she was young. Thirty, maybe. Black hair, worn shoulder length, the waves natural, not from some high class salon, green eyes, almost emerald, an aquiline nose, Streisand strong, not Kidman cute, full lips, high cheek-bones, all of which would have made another woman look confident and self-assured, but with over-sized, round, black framed glasses that gave her a geeky, rabbit-caught-in-the-headlights, kind of look instead.

"This is Marilyn," Mike introduced her, as I did my rounds.

Part of the job. You run a floor of twenty personnel and when it comes to office parties, you have to circulate and spend a few moments chatting niceties with each of your staff and the partner they had brought along.

Mike was new, just in my team five weeks, so this was his first freebee on the company's account. We held them every quarter, to celebrate our turn-over, good, bad or indifferent, the theory being that, either way, they will always serve to boost morale.

"John," I said, holding out my hand.

Hers was small and slender, soft and warm.

Normally you just press the flesh and then let go and that is all there is, but this was different. Something more. A definite vibe. Not just her hand in mine, her presence, right up close as we were introduced. She may have been presenting as unexceptional, modest, plain and unpretentious, but there was a sexual undertone about Mike's wife that I could feel through that brief contact of our hands, that pulsed through my body, that stirred something at my groin.

Not just the touch. Her aura. Something alluring, mesmeric, drawing me in, calling me closer. Enthralling, beguiling, enticing. I was tempted to reach out to her, remove those glasses, reveal and appreciate that face without the distraction that they were. She could look incredible, if she just knew how, and made the effort, but I guessed she did not realise her potential, or else she did not care.

Apart from lip gloss, she was not wearing make-up. Not even eye liner. Her black lashes and brows were strong enough to frame those beautiful green eyes all on their own. Ethereal, hypnotic eyes. Making me think thoughts so out of place, but overwhelming just the same.

"John manages the sales team," Mike explained.

"Nice to meet you," she said. "Thank you for inviting us."

"My pleasure," I said, still totally transfixed.

Not that the invitation had been mine, not personal. The event was not just for my floor, but the entire company, the best part of one hundred and eighty employees of all sorts, in a hotel ballroom suite that the company had booked out for the night. The invitation was automatic, for anyone employed there at the time.

"I hope that you're enjoying the evening," I continued.

"It's lovely," she said. "The dinner was really nice."

Small talk. It makes the world go around. It is also boring as hell, but it has to be done, so I forced myself back to reality and played my role, all the while picturing her without the black rimmed glasses, or the dress, or anything at all.

Neat, cherry like nipple stubs, or wide areolas, or somewhere in between? Shaved pubis, or just trimmed, or maybe she was one of those who did not bother, wild, black curls not just on her mons, but her inner thighs as well, or rising towards her navel? A slit, or peeping labia, or inch long curtains? I would have loved to know.

Those lips looked succulent. Her mouth. The gloss was somewhere between pink and scarlet. The colour of my cock head, when it is primed and gorged and full of blood. Those lips would feel so good around it. My cock would love to get to know them. It was already hoping it would get to feel them some time soon.

The small talk we engaged in does not matter. All that matters from that brief conversation was that when I moved away to do the same again with another of my staff, my cock was hard, and I was grateful that the pleat-cut flannel of my business suit and the firm hold of my underwear, meant that its hardness would be unlikely to be spotted by anyone I passed.

What happened later on that evening was not planned. Some things are just fortuitous. They fall right into your lap. You do not have to work for them. You do, however, have to be ready to take the opportunities that circumstances offer you. Which is exactly what I did.

The bathroom corridor. The hotel's facilities were not immediately adjacent to the ballroom, but a walk down one leg of a corridor, a turn, another walk, and then the choice of male, or female, or unisex disabled. Whichever category applied.

I used the male, of course. I did as nature required, my cock not rigid now, but thick with thoughts of her, washed, rinsed, dried my hands, checked my tie was straight, and headed out the door. She was right there. Walking past the male door, which she would have had to, returning from the ladies' room. Pure chance. Or luck.

I should have looked more carefully. Instead, I walked right into her. Took hold of her. To retain my balance and to prevent her from being pushed against the wall.

"I am so sorry."

It should have been me apologising to her, but it was her voice saying the words. Cute, naive, and unnecessarily apologetic.

I was still holding her. She felt almost fragile, like a doll, her waist slender beneath the thin fabric of her dress. What happened next took only seconds. Purely instinctive. Unrehearsed. The handle of another door pulled down. The one that had the wheelchair logo. I turned her, and then we were inside, door closed again, and locked.

No resistance. Nothing. Just Mike's wife looking up at me through those wide lenses, blinking nervously, while I was still holding her around her waist. She was breathing anxiously, breasts rising and falling, her lips parted, her teeth immaculately white, her mouth just made to kiss.

Nothing romantic or sexy about our surroundings. All functional. Sanitary ware, steel plumbing, emergency cord with bright red handle. Nothing erotic. Not that I cared.

Her glasses had to go. I used both hands. Folded the legs and set them on the basin at the back. Without them she looked suddenly so much sexier. You could lose yourself in the forest green of those amazing eyes, wander on unmarked pathways, in between the trees, and never find your way back home again, nor want to.

No longer being held for just that moment, all she did was look back up at me, her face almost devoid of expression. Waiting. My move to make. Not hers. But not protesting.

One hand beneath her perfect chin, I raised her head a little more, bent mine to hers, and found the succulence of her lips. They opened wider. Whether in submission, or as an invitation, I could not tell, but I enjoyed her mouth, tongued it, probed it, explored the smoothness of her teeth, her gums, played tip-touching with her own tongue, backed just enough to turn our heads the other way, and did it all again.

My cock had hoped that this would happen. It rose to the occasion. Already semi-primed, it hardened. Struggled to be free of underwear constraints. Still without thinking, instinct in control, I backed her to the wall, the only wall devoid of fixtures in the room. Groped at her dress. Scrabbled at it. Pulling it up. Finding the hem and gathering everything below her waist to lift it up and out of my way.

Stockings. Suspender belt. Not what I expected, but no reason to complain. Bare thigh flesh. Intriguingly, a thong. Not tights, or panties. Not the wide hipped cotton knickers that would have been in keeping with her style. No need to try to get those down. No need to rip a hole. Only a cotton triangle, covering a copse. The hair beneath it wild and dense. Au naturel. The first time I come across a cunt that had not at least been neatly trimmed.

No time to slide the thong down and off. No easy way to do it either, but no need. It was just elasticated string, and so I eased the cotton to the side. I finger probed amongst the curls, seeking the opening I desired, and found wetness of her keen and eager slit.

I tended to my fly. Unbuttoning. Easing out my cock, too hard and unbending now to be removed without maneouvring. She waited, whether simply docile and submissive to her husband's senior manager, or complicit, culpable, and just as much to blame, impossible to read.

Then both my hands beneath her butt. An easy lift. Work out routinely and one hundred and twenty pounds or so of femininity is light as a feather. Her dress was frictionless against the white tiled wall. I slid her upwards, and she put her arms around my neck, wrapped her legs around me, and looked with those beautiful green eyes, deep into mine.

Those eyes widened so delightfully as my cock head found the entrance to her cunt. Slick, wet, deliciously primed and ready. The head eased in. I held that moment, sensing her cunt lips closing over my flange, embracing the hard flesh. She stared, as if she was now spellbound, her cunt trembling, not just her cunt, her body, all of her, as if anticipating what yet to come, her coming and my own.

My cock became impatient. My buttocks sensed its need, and tightened, as my arms, my biceps, straightened just enough to slide her body inches down the bathroom wall, impaling slick, moist cunt with rigid cock.

She gasped, as softly as a whisper, as the final inch slipped in. I felt the pressure on my cock head in her womb, perhaps unused to taking all I had to give her, adjusting as it needed to, but uncomplaining, accepting, capitulating, accommodating all that incursive flesh.

"You're,..." she started. Then she stopped. Then tried again.

"You're big," she said.

"Too big?" I asked her.

Instead of answering, she looked down, so shyly. Then she shook her head. Looked up again, gave me a faint smile and softly said a single word.

"No,..."

It was easier to lift her up an inch before I started thrusting. Space to move. No risk of thrusting too hard, or too far. She helped. She locked her ankles behind my back, like a marsupial, gripping tightly for the ride.

Slick, wet cunt, but nicely tight. Delightful to fuck. Every upward thrust sent delicious spasms though the nerve endings of my cock head. It pulled gently on my frenum, teasing it, more blissful spasms that exploded softly, sending exquisite shock waves through every bone and muscle of my being. Her entrance lightly gripped my shaft, sliding down its length as I thrust upwards, its tightness hugging me, drawing yet more idyllic sensations from the skin on skin, wet, gliding of her cunt along my cock.

Just for a moment I thought what I was doing. Lust clouds all judgement. It overpowers sanity and sense. This was a colleague's wife. Not just a colleague. A member of my staff.

"Sorry, Mark," I thought, then closed down my conscience while I fucked his wife.

I really loved those eyes of hers, still meeting mine, somehow so clearly unashamed. Something about green irises is almost ethereal, languid forest pools that ripple with every thought and feeling that emanate and spring from deep within.

Yet there were questions in those eyes. Why are we doing this? Why are you fucking me? Why have I allowed you to? Why did you not even feel the need to ask? Why did I permit it, without resisting? Why does it feel so good with you?

Consent expressed in just how wide and open those eyes now were. Capitulation, whether to myself, or to her own desire. Seeming acknowledgement, that she was a willing partner in this crime against her marriage to her husband.

Soft exhalations as I fucked her. Dreamy breaths, just audible, open mouthed, air drawn through her throat, released again, her vocal cords vibrating in soprano sighs and tiny, mewing cries. Then gasping, deeper in tone, increasing volume. Then little shrieks of pleasure interspersed with groans. Finally, a shaking, shuddering orgasm wracking though her, and screams of pleasure not contained by any door or walls.

Her cunt gripped and squeezed and tightened with the contractions of her climax, exciting my cock, the head and shaft at once, teasing it into ejaculating, then milking it of every drop of semen in my loins. Skin on skin meant semen spewed directly in her womb. No thought given. Lust does that. Removes all cares. For that ecstatic moment all was bliss and joy.

Then back to our senses, disengagement, my cleaning my cock, her wiping semen seeping from her cunt. Nothing said. Yet no discomfort, no unease. Her dress straightened, she slipped out through the door. I waited. Not to be seen, too closely following a colleague's wife. Then I left the room myself. Rejoined the party. Performed my role again. More small talk. Though not with Mark or Marilyn.

**********

Monday was the first day back at work, after the event, the party, and the exquisite bathroom interlude, my colleague's wife against the white tiled wall. I went about my day as usual, outwardly no change, inwardly a little apprehensive at what could be an awkwardness between him and myself, or else a full blown, blazing row.

I saw him coming. The office that I use has floor to ceiling glazing and a discrete, glass door to provide no more than minimal privacy from the open plan sales floor, everything inside the space on view. Even before he levered open the door, I could read his face, his posture, and he seemed just the same as any other day, relaxed, composed, and on the ball, no hint of anger, hurt, or even that he knew.

He came in, standing casually by my desk. All he wanted was to consult me on a discount that a client was looking for, which he was not personally authorised to give. I gave the go ahead. He thanked me, and he left. The door closed on his back, and I realised just how tense my chest had been, released the tension with a long, deep breath.

In my headspace, I was still working out exactly what had taken place. I was still single when this happened, enjoying casual relationships, but not with female colleagues, nor with married women, let alone with wives of colleagues. Not in hotel restrooms either. Not on impulse. None of that.

I should have felt some kind of guilt, remorse, regret, maybe not for fucking her that way, but at least towards Mike, except instead I just felt good that I had followed whatever primal instinct that had held sway, and relief that Mike was either totally oblivious that I had fucked his wife three nights before, or for whatever other reason, did not really care.

Marriages are private places, the unwritten contract between husbands and their wives confidential to themselves. Most go for strict monogamy, faithfulness and trust, but I knew that some allow each other ventures outside the marital bed, and some husbands even like their wives to go with other men. Just what the situation was with Mike and Marilyn, I could only guess, but if I could fuck the guy's wife the way I had, with no come back of any kind, then that was fine with me.

I pulled out my right-hand desk drawer. Inside, it held a hang file rack, with indexed folders, for my staff, tabbed with their surnames, ordered alphabetically. I withdrew Mike's. Opened it. Job description, person specification, his application for the post, his contract of employment, personal details, emergency contact, in case of accident or serious ill health.

Her name was right there, in front of me, no home number, just a mobile, which was the number I had hoped to find. I picked up my own mobile and keyed the number in. Keyed in her name. Marilyn. Saved. Put back the folder. Closed the drawer. Sat back, and thought.

Sometimes you just have to go with your gut. Stop thinking. Close off your mind, the part that questions, throws up misgivings, doubts and qualms. Just shut it off and take the risk. I opened up my hotel booking app. Reserved a room. The following night. Not that I planned to sleep there. But check-in was at any time from two.

Then I sent the text. The day of the week. Tomorrow, Tuesday. The name of the hotel. The street. To meet me in the foyer at two-thirty. No name. Nothing more than that. It was enough. She might turn up, and then again, she just might not. A gamble. Nothing much to lose, just the cost of one night's stay. So much to gain.

White coat, faux leather, the style, the texture, but not the guilt of any animal being slaughtered for the look. Steel buttons, left undone, belt tied, not buckled. Stockinged legs, or so I guessed, since they had been stockings on her legs when I had fucked her just three days before. Four inch heels, which brought her to five-five, I guessed. My kind of girl. Cute. Petite. With the belt confirming the hour-glass shapeliness beneath. She looked around, her too large, black-rimmed glasses giving her the look of a librarian, school teacher, or accountant.

I got up from the sofa I had been sitting on while waiting. Went over. Smiled.

"Hi," I said.

"Hi," she answered, looking up, not smiling, just returning my gaze, steadily, waiting for me to make whatever move I planned to make.

"I've checked us in," I said.

"Okay," she answered.

"We'll need to take the lift," I said.

"Okay," she said.

I led the way. She followed. The lift doors slid to either side. I let her walk in first, then joined her. Pressed five. The doors slid closed. We stood there, side by side, feeling no movement, just gliding up in conspiring silence, while the dot display changed numbers, counting up each floor.

The lift doors opened. I let her step out first, then led the way, turning right, checking room numbers as we passed each door, stopping at our own. Touched the electronic lock with my key card, opened, and let her walk in just ahead. Closed the door behind us both.