Confession - Basic Instinct

Having read the comments on my Confession and Confession - Atonement, and thank you to all of you who wrote, I know that this description of what happened some time afterwards, as this piece does, will not go down well with some readers here. Some of your comments were pretty venomous. Writing as a wife who strayed, I have now experienced the disgust and hatred of a certain group of men.

I was never looking for praise. Just possibly some understanding. Or just acknowledgement, of a woman's honesty, in sharing how it was for me. As I said in the intro to my first piece, I just felt the need to write, instead of keeping everything bottled up inside me. For me, this is a kind of therapy. Putting it out there, to whoever wants to read it, is me baring my soul. So please take care of it. Be kind, is all I mean, or just say nothing.

There is an ending to what happened, which I have not quite finished writing, but it does end happily ever after, in a way. Give me a few more days, and it should be ready.

**********

The Heathrow Hilton at Terminal 4, safe, respectable, anonymous, with international guests who would not know me, and little chance of meeting someone there who would. Modern, the reception area itself is four or five storeys tall, glass from floor to ceiling, light and open. The hotel was worth a try, I thought.

"A gin and tonic, please," I asked the barman. "Ice, no lemon."

"Yes, ma'am," he said.

White marble counter. Back-lit red shelving with the bottles and dispensers and the racks of glassware. Red leather stools to sit on, although these stools had backs, which I prefer.

Seated, diagonally, because architects so often forget to build in legroom when they design a bar, and the marble ran straight down the bar front, not just on top. Cross legged, because a woman in a skirt always sits that way, not just because above the stockings I was wearing, my flesh was bare, thighs, butt, pubis, from the dense black, self-supporting tops right to my waist.

I tried to remember her name. The actress. In that film. With Michael Douglas. The interrogation scene. Crossing and uncrossing her legs, to put him off his stride. I could do that. Flash my hairless slit at someone. It felt good to know that I was brave enough to risk the possibility.

I wore a business suit. Not that I was on business, unless you count the oldest business in the world. Not that I would charge. I guess I could have pretended that I was some kind of high class call girl, but I really just wanted to blend in. To be just another solo business woman with nothing better to do on a Friday evening than while away my time, people-watching at the hotel bar.

Dark grey. Jacket and skirt. The jacket now over the back of the bar stool. Another reason I prefer stools with backs. My blouse pure white. My bra jet black. Which meant that it showed through. My cleavage bare, the top buttons of the blouse left open. More than enough to attract a stranger's eye.

The barman set the drink down on a black, circular, paper mat embossed in silver with the hotel's name.

"Gin and tonic," he said. "Ice, no lemon."

Repeating my order back to me to confirm that he had got it right.

"Thank you," I said.

"Card or tab?" he asked.

It seems that no one uses cash. Pay now with card, or later, after several more.

"Card, thanks," I said. Maybe I was already thinking that if I had a second drink, someone else would pay the bill.

He checked out my cleavage as I paid.

"Waiting for someone," he asked, more conversationally than because he really wanted to know.

"Maybe," I said, subconsciously sharing with him my indecision. Right then, my head was full of uncertainties, vacillation.

When I submitted my Confession, some of the comments suggested that exactly this would happen. Having compromised my marriage with one man, I would be tempted to do it again, if not with him, then with someone else. If not at a hotel bar, then somewhere else.

I had thought that it would just be that one time. Not that I would never feel the sense of attraction or desire again, but that there would be no need to act on it. That I could resist desire for something new, someone, not my husband.

My simple assumption, 'been there, done that, no need to do it ever in my life, again", seemed so trite. Just that once, I had, to my shame, been there with the gardener hired by my husband to prune our apple tree, who took me in the kitchen of our family home. Did it once. No need to ever go there again. Or so I thought.

And of course, my sex life with Peter was still, is still, good. Not just good. Amazing. Compared to most of my friends, that is. Most nights, a quickie, just before we sleep, and sometimes not so quick.

Date night every Friday now, our boys enjoying sleepovers with my mother. Even looking forward to them. Her cooking. Healthy meals for tea-time. Cakes and biscuits in the evening. Her cats, all three of them, which they just love to stroke while watching shows together. The boys, that is, watching television. The cats pay no attention to the screen. Breakfast in the morning, full English, not just the cereal and toast they usually get at home.

Date nights meaning restaurants, theatre, concerts, or just eating in, but always followed by loving, leisurely sex, no need to do things quietly, or keep things in our bedroom, not with the boys staying over with their Gran. The kitchen table several times already, reminding me of bending over it for someone else that time. Our lounge. Our patio, in summer months, unseen by neighbours.

Then, once a month, atonement. The paddle. Leather cuffs and silk rope ties. A blindfold. No longer just across our bed. Bent over an armchair in our lounge. The rattan table on the patio as well. That time he left me there, tied to it, while a barbeque went on next door. At least our garden is secluded. I heard them. But no one knew or saw.

The same paddle used each time. The same raised letters. The same effect. My white flesh reddened, the word emblazoned on my butt. Not that he knew the reason I had chosen it. Telling him about that time would have risked our marriage, our family. Not worth the risk.

He alternated. The first time he had punished my left butt, repeatedly, with one final stroke on the right, missing the first letter, so that for the next week I had been a gradually fading "L-U-T". The next time it had been my right check that had received the brunt of the punishment. A final stroke on the left had been perfectly inflicted. All four letters. "S-L-U-T".

Each morning and each night, dressing or preparing for bed, showering, cleaning teeth, naked, because once our bedroom door was closed, and the small knob on the handle turned so that our boys could not surprise us, that was how we were together. Naked and comfortable and not bothering with nightdresses or pyjamas or tee-shirts or robes, but exactly as we were.

And one buttock would be a general splodge of red. The other said the word. My husband's slut. He had become my dom. Punishing me for having let another fuck me, although that was the one thing Peter did not, could not, know. The real reason that I accepted what he meted out to me. To me it was my punishment, whereas to him, our monthly dom-sub play was just a game.

My punishment was not just that. It served as a reminder. Of a day when I had let another man open my dress, remove it, turn me around and bend me forwards onto the glass table that was in our kitchen, claim my cunt as if it were his own, fuck me, and come in me, and leave me leaking semen, the trickles running slowly down my inner leg. A gardener. That was all he was to me. But what I let him do was way too much.

Reminding me as well that there are other men who given half a chance would fuck me just as casually. That the world is full of them. That forty years of age leave me still desirable. One of those married women. A 'milf', I read. A mother that those guys would love to fuck.

If only life were black and white. Good and evil. Right and wrong. If only inner thoughts were all one way. Love and trust and honour and loyalty and faithfulness. Without the other instinct. Without desires that leads you to betray.

I had found that I could love my husband, adore him, want his happiness and more, be the best mother to our children that I knew how to be, and yet feel the instinctive urge to find another man to fuck me, relive those sensations in my cunt, of hard male flesh inside me, thrusting deep, long, hard thrusts that went on for ever, ending only with an explosion of semen filling me, finally satiating that prohibited desire.

That same desire had made me take advantage of my husband's absence overnight. In Wales, for golf, with friends. It had made me wear the business suit that had been retired before we had our children. That same desire had made me drive my car the forty minutes from our home to London's premier airport. That same desire had drawn me to this bar, this stool, this drink, this waiting game,, still undecided, in inner turmoil, cunt and heart and brain at war.

Slim, tanned, good-looking, silver fox, in light grey flannel, neat white shirt, pink and purple tie, asking me before he took the stool beside me.

"Is this seat taken?"

"No." I said. "Please,..."

He sat. Turned towards me while he waited to be served.

"Flying in, or out," he asked.

"Out," I lied. "Just to Edinburgh. Morning flight tomorrow."

"Hong Kong," he said. "Just in. I thought I'd stay over before heading back to Manchester."

"Okay," I said.

His eyes gave me a once over. Face, breasts, hovering a moment at my cleavage, down to my legs, sheer nylon. Then my hand. My rings.

"You're married?" he asked. He might as well have asked the real question that was on his mind. Did I sleep with strangers? Or more precisely, might I sleep with him?

"Yes," I said, answering only the spoken question. I was as yet unsure how I would answer the other questions that I knew were forefront on his mind.

"Family?" he asked.

"Two boys," I said.

He nodded.

"It must be difficult. Travelling, I mean,... when you're a mother."

"It can be," I said.

I realised that my answers were that bit too short. I was not being unfriendly. Just brief. Giving away too little. Not giving off the signals he was looking for. Not engaging.

He was a good looking guy. A little older, but not much. Perhaps, even, the same age as Peter. He was in good shape. He was confident. He might be good in bed, if that was what I wanted. Fuck a stranger, while I had the chance. I had dressed for it after all. Nothing beneath the skirt of my business suit. Bare cunt.

Except, good looking alone was not enough. I did not want to go to bed with him. Not betray my husband, not for this man.

My head knew that. That was why, without my even calculating just how I should be with him, my answers were so brief. My head knew that he was wrong for me. Not him. Maybe not anyone. Maybe I should finish off my gin, and leave. Drive home. Watch some unmemorable show. Go to bed, alone.

I needed to extricate myself from him. I used what he had said, my get out clause.

"But thanks," I added. "You're reminding me I need to call my kids. I promised them I would before my mother puts them to bed."

I opened up my clutch bag and got out my phone.

"Would you excuse me?" I asked, sliding from my stool and picking up my drink.

He smiled, but I could read the minor disappointment in his face. Good try, but no luck this time.

"Sure," he said. "No problem."

I looked around, found what I wanted, a vacant table, and walked between some others to claim it as my own. A coffee table, not for dining from. Two curved sofas, one on either side. I sat on one. Called my mother's mobile phone.

She used my name. I won't. Not here.

"Hi," I said. "I promised the boys I'd call."

"Everything good?" she said. "How's Martha?"

"She's great," I lied.

There was no Martha. Or not with me. If I knew Martha, she would be with someone, it being Friday night, and probably a guy. A lifelong friend, still single, still enjoying different guys each weekend, sometimes two-timing. Sometimes, I wondered, maybe even three.

The only friend to whom I had entrusted everything. Who understood. Who did not judge, or criticise. Who knew her own needs, and had no qualms about ensuring they were met, and so was not surprised that her married friend might herself have needs that were yet to be explored. My co-conspirator. My alibi, while Peter was away.

They did not want to talk long, the boys. They were playing on the Playstation that my mother had actually bought for them, and which she claimed helped her own hand eye coordination, and kept her young, by playing on it when they were not there. The boys were fed, were safe, were happy, and that was all I needed to know.

I ended the call. Put my phone back in my clutch bag. Realised that in the few minutes while I had been talking, the sofa opposite me had been occupied by someone. A big guy. Black. Shaved head. Not my type at all. Talking on his mobile.

Something about a business deal. What else? There are just two kinds of conversations here. Business and family. Calls to associates, seniors, or juniors, or to potential business partners, or else to wives back home, or children. No other types of call. The gold ring on his thick finger told me he was married. Not that it mattered.

Nice suit though. I liked the sheen. On someone else it might have looked out of place, but it suited him. White shirt. White shirts everywhere here. No surprise. Gold tie. Gold watch on one wrist. Gold bracelet on the other. He liked his gold.

I reached for my glass. My legs did what comes naturally. Uncrossed themselves as I leaned forwards. Recrossed, the other way, as I leaned back again.

Stone, I remembered. Sharon Stone. That was her name. And I had just done it. Uncrossed and crossed again.

I checked where he was looking. His eyes met mine. He would have seen. Just how far, I could not tell. Low seats. Low coffee table. No obstruction. Inner thigh, maybe. Bare flesh, maybe, but how far? Might he happen to have seen just that bit further? My slit? Maybe. Too dark to know that like my thighs, it too was bare?

But in the end it did not matter. A guy I had no interest in, may or may not have seen my pussy in a hotel forty minutes from my home. I sipped my drink. The ice had melted, diluting the gin, but I enjoyed the flavour just the same.

I should just go. This had been stupid. This is not what a married woman does. I do not need this. I do not need to be picked up, or to go to some man's room, or let him undress me, or take me to his bed.

I counted, just to pass the time. Or estimated. Fifty percent couples. Forty-five percent men. Some with business colleagues. Quite a few alone. Five percent women. Half of those accompanying male colleagues. Only a handful, like myself, alone.

Basic Instinct. The name of the film. The name of whatever it is that drives us to do the things we should not do. A basic instinct brought me to the Hilton. So basic, that it would not go away.

He was still talking on his mobile, but he was also still eyeing me. Six feet away from me. The width of a coffee table between us. That was all.

I did it. Without even deciding first, I just found myself uncrossing my legs. The left had been on top. I raised it and moved it to the side, balancing my foot on the three inch heel of my shoe. The skirt tautened. The hem was midway up my thigh. Not all business suits are cut to knee length.

I could feel my pussy pulse. My cunt.

Pussy is what Peter calls it. What he used to call it. Before we tried our first session of BDSM, and he found that he quite liked it. Realised that the woman whom he loved enjoyed a touch of bondage, and of punishment. That what she had between her legs was not just warm and welcoming, and could do much more than purr. That it could ooze desire, and could be ravaged. That he quite liked to fuck it, not make love to her, but fuck her wet and willing cunt.

He looked. First there, between my legs, then back to my eyes. Checking if it was inadvertent, or deliberate. Did I realise? Did I intend for him to see? Then back to my pussy. To my cunt. Staring straight at it. Right to the centre of my soul.

My basic instinct was to hold the pose. I counted seconds in my head. Sipped my drink. Ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five. Then thirty. Time suspended. Seconds that seemed to last for ever.

Then I raised my right leg, slowly, conscious that in doing so the hem of my skirt was also raised, and a little more light would find its way beneath the fabric, but then crossing that right leg over my left, not the male version, with the ankle on the knee, but thigh over thigh, closing off the cunt view, making private what had been exposed.

**********

"You know it still shows?" Peter asked me.

I was in our bathroom, cleaning my teeth, and the man I love had just walked behind me.

Saturday night. Peter back at home. The boys in bed. Dinner eaten. A film watched together on the ludicrously massive television in what we pretentiously call the cinema room. Both of us going through our bed-time rituals. One week and a day since Peter had tied me face down on our bed and used the paddle to effect.

I knew.

I knew that it still showed because I check each morning in our wardrobe mirrored doors, opening two of them to face each other at an angle so that I can see my rear. That morning, they were faint, but they were there. My left butt just softly pink. My right, the letters similarly pink, but readable. They had readable the night before. They had been read. Not in this bedroom, but in another, a hotel room. Hilton quality. Twelve miles away.

"I missed you last night," I said.

He kissed my shoulder. His cock grazed my butt. Hard. Erect. It usually was. If not while we were in the bathroom, then when we were in bed. High levels of testosterone.

"I missed you too," he said. "Good trip though. We got in some good golf."

"Is that for me?" I asked, meaning his erection.

"Who else?" he said.

We finished simultaneously. The advantage of the side-by-side identical wash basins. His and mine.

I led the way from our en suite towards our bed, and would have climbed beneath the covers, but he grabbed me from behind, and turned me, and used the momentum of my walking to make me fall backwards onto the bed. Side on, not head to foot. He pushed me further, held my calves and parted them. A moment later his tongue was probing at my slit.

I panicked. I thought about the taste test. My secret secretions on his taste buds. Tasting of me, I hoped. Not of the semen that I had carried home.

I had showered in the early hours, before I touched the sheets and slept. Showered, and douched, both. Removal of all evidence. The aim, at least, although inevitably some semen would remain. I douched again, once I had wakened, before I collected our boys from my mother's house and brought them home. Then another shower before bed. Cleansing my cunt, at least, but not my sense of guilt or shame.

Peter's tongue lapped and licked and probed, but he showed no sign of noticing. He kissed my thighs and mons. He tongue-tipped my clit, from side to side, then up and down, and I shuddered with the shock waves generated by his soft, wet, lapping there.

Another man had licked me there. I felt the guilt of having gone to him, having given him free reign, to use me as his plaything. Having allowed all that had taken place.

More guilt than before. My first betrayal of the man I love had been spontaneous, unplanned, an instinctive response to that one stranger. It had been a physical attraction, out of my control, reflex, innate.

Not this time.