Confrontation

'You fucked my husband.'

Petite, dark hair, wide brown eyes, tired skin. She was probably a big hit at high school, but now she was just another mummy who's no longer yummy, two kids, an SUV, saggy tits and an even softer waistline.

I don't even know the woman, but that doesn't make her accusation wrong. Far from it.

'Was it his birthday?'

There was a time when I used to make them wait till their birthday, but in a large office like ours you'd be amazed how many guys share the same birthday. And then there'd be entire weeks without a single one. Five days without a shag seems like a lifetime when you're used to getting it daily. Hubby doesn't count, obviously.

I'm talking about the thrill you get from a quickie behind the filing cabinets. And yes I have done that. Not often, but more than once. Usually it was the stationery cupboard. Dark corners, secluded part of the building, not as risky as it sounds. You can hear footsteps when you've still got 15 seconds to spare. Plenty of time to disengage, dress, and be at separate ends of the shelving.

Unless you don't mind being caught. Or found out. Like now. Being confronted by angry wives goes with the territory. She wasn't the first and doubtless not the last either. But she was getting very angry very quickly.

'I don't bloody know if it was his birthday. What difference does that make?'

'I like to think there's at least a little difference between a special present and a quick fuck. Don't you?

Of course there isn't really. Not for me anyway. A fuck's a fuck whether it's your birthday or not. Things that make the difference are cock size, of course, circumstances, and sudden uncontrollable spunking. I love that. Premature ejaculation is the best compliment you can give me. I'm so arousing and exciting I make guys cum in their pants. Or mine. Or up my skirt and all over my thighs, all over my bum if I've bent over for them. I love making cocks cum, love all that thick creamy hot spunk spurting out of them. In me is good, but anywhere will do.

And anywhere will do for a fuck. As in right here, right now, with everyone looking. Yes, I have. But not here in this bar. Other bars, yes. It's definitely worth the risk. Outside, up against the wall, it's rude, dirty sex, a million times better than vanilla missionary at home in bed. But inside, up against the wall, where people around me can see what I'm doing it's so horny I'm almost premature myself. And if I can see my hubby, or there's a chance he might see me, then I cum as quick as they do.

No idea why.

People ask, obviously, and I don't have an answer.

We all know men have fetishes. Feet, lingerie, blondes, big tits. Whatever. They say only men are actual fetishists. But all women have an underwear fetish, if you want my opinion. It's why we spend so much money on the stuff. And we're all exhibitionists at heart. If we buy that flimsy pair of knickers and wear them, we want someone to see how good we look in them. So we make sure someone does.

Apart from that, some women like to be spanked, or tied up, and some like to be shared. Some of us do our own sharing. That's me, that's my thing. Sex is dull and boring without the extra lift I get from cheating.

I don't really care who it is. Which is why I don't take too much notice of them. So I definitely don't remember them. Including this woman's husband.

Keep smiling, admit nothing, deny nothing, and she'll go away. They always do. There's nothing to be gained if you aren't wounding your enemy with your words, and there's nothing she or any other wife can say that will prick my conscience or make me feel bad about myself or my actions.

Deeds. They always call them deeds when they're yelling accusations. Filthy deeds. I like them. The filthier the better. As long as it's with someone other than dear old hubby.

He has his moments of course. I keep him regularly supplied with oats, so he's always happy and content. And blissfully unaware. He knows I only leave the bedroom light on for his benefit. He understands that I prefer it in the dark. Naturally modest, that's what I am. Bit of missionary, bit of doggie and I can suck for as long as he wants me to, though it's never more than a few minutes.

I let him buy all my lingerie. He thinks it's all for his benefit of course, but though it sometimes inspires him a little, it really drives his friends insane with lust.

'I always knew you'd undress better than you dress,' one of them said. Can't remember which. It was a long time ago. I ran out of his friends ages ago. Never go back, that's my rule, never do anyone twice. So I moved on to my work colleagues, his colleagues, and finally random strangers in bars and nightclubs.

I sort of preferred people we both knew. It's far more shocking to find your friend's wife is gagging for a fuck, and of course very bad behaviour to fuck hubby's best mate. So bad I used to get wet all day long, sat in a puddle at my desk just thinking about it. That's when I started on workmates, obviously. They were surprised at first, shocked even, when I started feeling them up under the table at lunch or whatever.

But they soon got the idea.

I still only let them have it once. Favouritism is an issue, but emotions are a complication.

No affairs equals less bother. Plus there's no evidence. We do the deed and seconds later I pull my skirt down and that's it -- there's no way to prove it ever happened. Most of all there are no whispery phone calls, no unexplained texts or emails -- and no paper trail. Nothing for hubby to find and follow, trace the progress of a liaison, count the times I've fucked his best mate, or workmate, or whoever most wives end up in a relationship with.

Who needs another one of those? Not me. Just lots of lovely hard cocks, thank you. lots of eager men. Like the one belonging to Mrs Average here, still speaking in a quiet voice, but it's that shouty whisper other people notice.

'Remind me,' I suggested. That always slows them down a bit.

'He works here,' she snapped, and I knew at once who she meant. Tall, dark, a bit foreign-looking. I thought he'd be Italian, but by the time he'd got me bent over a crate of empties out the back I discovered I'd got six inches of Essex cock up inside me. Did the job well enough though.

'He's fucked half the women in this room,' I told her. It was true. Every golf widow in town had invited him round, and he always showed up when their hubby was teeing off a four-ball on the front nine. Ample time to give the frustrated wife a good hard shag and be back behind the bar long before hubby's game was over.

'That's just gossip,' she countered.

I could feel my eyebrow lifting.

'You were seen.' she hissed in that voice again. 'My sister saw you through the window, lying on the table in the committee-room with your skirt up round your waist like a common whore.'

I couldn't help myself. I was laughing, genuinely laughing out loud.

But not because she'd called me a whore.

Right now I couldn't be sure whether her sister had seen the Essex Romeo at it on the boardroom table with one of the other wives and mistaken her for me, or whether she'd seen some other man giving me the seeing-to. But I had definitely never been in that room with her husband for any reason at all, never mind fucked him in there. I was trying to say so, but I kept breaking into a smile. A 'disrespectful smile', she called it.

'Smirking at me like that. Think you're too grand to worry about people like us.'

I didn't, but it wouldn't have been helpful to say so. Anyway she'd moved onto a more solid footing, telling me to deny fucking her husband if I could.

'Go on. Swear on the Holy Bible you've never had him,' she challenged.

'There's never one around when you need one, is there.'

'Have you no shame?' she asked.

I thought she'd missed a golden opportunity to call me a harlot. It would have sounded so much better. Have you no shame, harlot?

But what a curious question. Anybody who behaves like me can hardly be ashamed, can they, or they wouldn't keep doing it.

In fact shame is a curious concept altogether, especially when it comes to sex. I haven't ever been ashamed of liking sex, and it follows that I'm not ashamed of wanting it or doing it. Never have been.

I'd had hundreds of cocks before I was 16. I used to say dozens, if people asked, because I thought it sounded better, but then I realised it made little difference. It was the first one that changed everything.

I hate the man, of course, and if I ever see him again I will slash his throat. He's responsible for the way I am. He made me love sex, so much I can enjoy it with anyone. On the plus side, he also made me understand that men want my pussy so badly I could make them ask, make them plead, and sometimes even make them beg. It's a powerful combination.

Some women have a slutty underside. but with me it's all there is. Slut. I think it's about time more people realised what a compliment it is.

Men have had it too easy for too long. Trump says he grabs women by the pussy and tells them he wants a fuck, and half the world thinks he's a hero.

I do the same to guys, but everyone says I'm a slut, a whore, a tart. You can call me any name you choose, but whatever word you pick will be degrading and insulting. That's what happens when women behave like men.

And that's all I do.

But instead of chasing pussy I chase cocks. I love cocks, new ones most of all, cocks I've never seen or touched before. I want to fuck them all, and when you're a pretty girl -- you can. So I do.

Including the Essex Romeo.

She was still going on about him, and I'd just about had enough lecturing.

'I have never been in that room with your husband', I said, holding up a hand palm outwards, warding off her flow of anger, 'and I will swear it on any Bible or Holy book or whatever you like. So either he was with someone else in there, or I was.'

'You mean you've had others?', imbuing the word with degree of innuendo I doubt I could replicate.

Two, in fact. On that table.

The first was one of the few guys who had the balls to proposition me. Oh, a lot do it when we're in bars and clubs, especially when I've been rubbing my pussy all over them as we chat, just to fire them up. Asking if I fancy a fuck is hardly a feat of courage in those circumstances.

But this was one of the few who just looked me in the eye across a conversationally polite space -- in this very bar, in fact -- and told me that he often sat at the table in the committee room and fantasised about having me laid out on the polished oak while he spread my legs, put his head up my skirt and ate me out, as he put it.

'What happens next,' I asked?

'Oh we'd all take turns to fuck you,' he said.

That made me wetter than I'd been for a while, I can promise you.

'We?'

'The whole committee would be there.'

'All nine of you?'

'Of course. No dissenters. Motion carried. Only way to keep a secret ballot secret.' He smiled again. He was drunk by then, that's what made him brave enough to say it, of course.

I was so well-lubricated myself I had to do something about it right away.

'Then follow me if you want all your dreams to come true,' I said to him. It had been a big day on the course, some local competition we'd won, and hubby was busy drinking out of the trophy along with everyone else. Never even noticed me leave the bar with my brave suitor in tow.

'There's no lock,' he said as he closed the door.

I was already on the table, on my back, legs wide apart, pussy dribbling and twitching with excitement. Who cares about locks. Let them all come in and watch.

'Eat me,' I commanded, and he did. Took me about ten seconds.

After I stopped gasping, I changed the order. 'Fuck me,' I said, and he did exactly that. Only took him about ten seconds, so it's a miracle Mrs Angry's sister saw us in the act. On the other hand it may've been the second one. 'Send me another committee member,' I told him as he left.

I sat on the edge of the table, waiting, Legs apart, knickers in my handbag, I was ready. If hubby had come looking for me I could have stood up and walked away, innocent and pure. But it wasn't him. This guy had his cock in his hand before he'd closed the door and he just pushed me back on the table and shoved it in me. No other word for it. He was in a hurry to get at the pussy is all, but it made him seem very dominant and masterful, so of course I started cumming straight away. This one is probably who the sister saw. He did last a couple of minutes, so maybe that was enough for me to be spotted.

But not with My Dave, as I gather he's called. I preferred Romeo.

'Tell your sister she's wrong,' I suggested. 'Not about me, perhaps, but about him.'

There. my good deed for the day. Week, really. Month even.

She obviously wasn't sure about this accusation to start with, or she'd have taken it up with him face to face. Or just cut all his clothes up with scissors and thrown him out.

But she wasn't sure, was she? Not really. All she had to go on was what her sister said she'd seen through the window, which is hardly proof, is it.

Unless she'd walked in and caught us in the act, his cock in my pussy, you can't prove it can you? Once we'd left that room with my knickers safely in my handbag and all my earrings in place, it's all hearsay, your honour.

It's not like we left fingerprints all over each other, is it?