Beneath White Leather

Still no complaint. Just the shaking of her hair to have it fall behind her back, and flashing, emerald eyes that said that she had grit. But more than that. Her eyes were moist, glistening with repressed tears released by reflex. You can blink your tears away, but cannot control the ducts.

Once down on the floor, and off the dais, I took her in my arms. She melded into me, her breasts crushed against my jacket. We kissed. My cock was hard for her, and our mouths opened to devour each other, but something else was definitely there, a feeling, not just sexual desire, but something close to love.

He would have seen. Mike. There was no way that her butt would have returned to its pristine, milk white innocence in time.

We had walked around the Dungeon for another hour or more, taking in the various exhibits, hand in hand. An escapee from his office with his medieval slave, her breasts and cunt displayed, her butt still bearing evidence of painful punishment inflicted. It gradually got busier, with yet more people seeing us together, but neither of us cared.

This time, when we had left, and checked into the hotel room I had booked, our lovemaking was more tender. Slow and loving fucking. Mike's wife whimpering with pleasure as she came. My cock responding, spurting semen copiously deep into her womb, while she was whispering to me.

"Oh, yes,... just come in me,... I love that,...it's so good!"

Mike would have seen those lines across her butt that night. No doubt of that. Yet all I knew was that, next morning, in the office, everything was smooth and easy, normality reigning, nothing said, no hint of anything at all from him.

**********

The end of July. Another quarter. The same hotel, but outside, on the roof-top patio. Cold buffet, drinks bar, tables, chairs and splendid view, and Mike and his wife amongst the hundred others making more polite conversation, fake laughs, false smiles.

She had her back to me. No coat. No lingerie on view. No naked back or butt. A summer dress. White cotton. Tiny blue and yellow flowers. Suburban, boring, tastelessness. Belted, which displayed her waist. Her hair now cut to a bob, just touching the nape of her neck, no longer tumbling mid-way down her back. Unfortunate, I thought. Nothing like as sexy as before. But then she turned, and something else was far from being right.

Her nose was not as strong. Her mouth that fraction fuller. Her eyes, blue like the sky. She smiled, all innocent and sweet.

"John, can I introduce you to my wife," Mike said. "Jane."

I did a double take. A different woman. Similar, but subtly not the same. This could not be her. I knew his wife. I had fucked her every week. Had done more than simply fuck her. Yet now, it seemed, this other woman, almost her twin, was introduced to me so clearly as his wife.

"Hi," Jane smiled. "Mike has told me so much about you. So has my sister. It was lucky that I couldn't come last time. A business trip to Sweden. But it meant that you two got to meet each other."

"Absolutely," I bluffed, thinking on my feet, working it out, putting two and two together and getting somewhere north of a million.

"We should have dinner together, sometime," Jane continued. "All four of us, at ours. If things have reached that stage between you, that is."

Her sister, she had said. So not Mike's wife. Marilyn, the woman I had fucked, and fucked again, and played those games with, was actually my colleague's sister-in-law. She had to have come with him that other time, as a stand-in partner for the evening, so that Mike would not be on his own.

The green eyed version of this Jane, with longer hair and stronger facial features, not only was not Mike's wife, she was no one's wife. Not then, at least.

I thought back, hard. His introduction. Just her name. He had not actually said the words, had not described her as his wife. My natural assumption. But no wedding ring, not that I remembered, not that I had looked for one, or would have cared, not during that first bathroom fuck, and each time we had met since then she had left her wedding ring, and any other ring, at home, or so I thought.

Except her number had been in his file. The requisite contact for emergencies. Which left me puzzled, until much later. Dinner at their place. The foursome. Finding out that Jane's work necessitated regular absence from the country, which was why her sister's name and number had been left with personnel as the contact in emergency. She would at least be close, at any time.

I had been played. By Marilyn. She knew exactly what I had thought was going on. I had asked, from time to time, and each time she had deliberately non-answered in reply.

"Do you think your husband realises?"

"Maybe, maybe not."

"Does he know what you get up to?"

"Does it matter?"

Misleading answers. Never a lie. Just never quite the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

Needless to say, nothing happened in the bathrooms that night, not with Jane. Not that I was interested. Nothing like the same vibe, and even had there been, I would not have gone there. Not after Marilyn.

At one point in the evening my mobile buzzed. A text. From Marilyn. If an emoji with a winking face counts as a text. Laughing, at me, or with me, I could not be sure, but laughing, now that I would know just who and what she was.

Next time I saw her, I decided, even if there was no paddle I could use, she would be put across my knees and I could always use my hand.

Except the next time was in a restaurant. Dinner together. Her coat left at reception, to reveal a shapely dress. Nothing daring. But beautiful, on her. Burgundy, complimenting her eyes, which were sparkling, not with tears, but with her sense of fun and mischief. A pleasant cleavage, but not extreme. Breasts I knew so well, now more discretely shown.

"You really thought all this time that I was Mike's wife?" Marilyn asked me.

"Guilty as charged," I had no choice but to admit it, "but you knew that all along."

"Only after the first time you asked about my husband," she said.

"And you said nothing," I said.

"It was fun," Marilyn said. "Playing his wife. Knowing that's what you thought. But it does raise a question."

"Which is?"

"Do I want to be involved with someone who fucks other people's wives?"

She did not seem to mind who heard, but then this was a woman who had not minded having photographs of herself, semi-naked in the stocks, taken by anyone who happened to be there, and sent half-way round the world.

"Not wives," I tried correcting her. "Just one."

"Even one," Marilyn said, "says something about a person's character."

"Or something about the woman," I suggested.

She smiled.

"Are you trying to shift the blame onto me?"

"Not blame," I said. "Just that you are so totally irresistible. Even when you were wearing those glasses, which I notice you don't seem to even need."

"They were fun," Marilyn laughed. "Jane told me to dress down. Not to give the wrong impression to Mike's colleagues. Then I just kept wearing them when I was meeting you. Part of the game."

"And what was that all about," I asked, "coming to the room in just your coat, and the exhibitionism in the tube station, and at the Tate, and the London Dungeon?"

"You know that really hurt!" she said. "I hadn't planned on being caned. You really shouldn't have let her do that."

"Guilty," I said. "But it was fun to watch, and I was seriously impressed with how you handled it."

"You do know that you're a bastard, don't you!" Marilyn exclaimed. But she was laughing.

"Your outfit was a bit extreme," I said. "You really like to show off your figure, don't you?"

"With you," she said, that bit more softly.

If I had not known her better, I would have thought there was a hint of coyness in her smile.

Just dinner. Her idea. We had fucked each other's brains out for three months, but never talked. Now we did. Not just that evening. Three times a week, for the entire month of August. More dates. Restaurants, concerts, walks in the park, drives out to the countryside, but never fucking. Not for four long weeks, at her insistence. Just talking, laughing, holding hands, kissing lovingly, tongues entwined, but no more cock in cunt. Exploring who we were, and how we felt.

"Westfield Caffé Concerto. Wednesday. 2.00pm?"

It was back to our earlier communications. Arranging to fuck. All of our dates through August had been arranged by actually calling, talking, ending with 'I love you's. So this had to be some form of game. I cleared my diary and then confirmed.

Westfield is a shopping mall, in West London, as its name implies. Caffe Concerto turned out to be Italian, nicely presented, offering food and drinks. Marilyn was waiting, in her white coat, and what were likely to be stockings. They were fishnets once again, in grey this time. Which left me wondering, what else, if anything, she wore beneath.

We embraced each other warmly, and we kissed. We went inside.

"I thought, just a coffee, maybe," she said.

We sat. Her coat parted to reveal her stockinged knees, and as she crossed her legs, her inner thighs, right to the whiteness of bare flesh. No skirt, no dress in sight.

We ordered coffees, cappuccino for her, americano for myself.

"You know," she started, sipping at her froth, "that thing about my not being sure about a guy who'd fuck a married woman?"

"I remember," I said.

"I was wondering," she said. "if you would ever want to fuck a married woman for real."

Puzzled, I answered with the straightforward truth.

"Not really," I said. "I'm too much into you."

She smiled, then changed the subject. Slightly.

"I've booked us a hotel room near here," she said. "And, yes, I'm naked underneath, apart from a suspender belt."

My cock reacted. My brain did too, just slightly slower. I wondered why a shopping mall. If she had plans already made. What kind of daring she intended this time. What kind of store. A changing room, perhaps, or the bedding area of a furniture outlet. Both guesses wildly wrong.

Coffees enjoyed, we left, Marilyn deciding where we went. Walking hand in hand, browsing different displays on windows, pausing that bit longer at one, a high end jewellers. She turned.

"Are you definite, that you wouldn't like to fuck a married woman?" she asked.

This time I worked it out. It should not have taken that much thought.

"Well if you're suggesting what I think you are," I said, "then I could enjoy it, yes."

We went inside. A male assistant greeted us. Tall, suited, fifties, close cut grey hair and neat chin beard. He asked what we were looking for, and so i told him. Rings. He brought us a central table, counter level, covered in black cloth. A moment later, brought us out some trays.

Two displays of rings with diamonds. Another tray with wedding bands, arranged in matching pairs. We browsed while he looked on, Marilyn and myself, the future man and wife, now side by side, no longer playing games, selecting rings.

Four other customers, two pairs, were being served by other. The store itself had floor to ceiling windows to the front, people passing just outside. By no means private, which made what happened next so daring, even for my future wife.

"It's warm," she said to me. Then looked at him.

"Would you mind if I took off my coat while we decide?" she said.