Doppelgängaftagley

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When someone has an honest attitude,

honestly, do you actually trust them?

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This tasty young bird struts down to my end of the moderately crowded pub. A pageboy-cut brunette in a frilly blouse barely containing a double handful of knockers. Poured into a pair of Capris doing a bang up job of displaying the Golden Mean of her arse and legs.

Stopping next to me, waving her hand at the empty stool next to mine, politely asking "Pardon me, is this seat taken?"

With a start, I gave her an astonished look. Her face briefly flashes nervous then curious. Obviously thinking 'What's this blokes problem?'

I strained my head towards her as if I had trouble clearly understanding her with all the noise of the crowd and the blaring music from the ceiling speakers.

With tandem tellys, blasting us with a repeat of the rugby game between Australia and Ireland.

Actually that gave me a close up view of her very nice, unfettered nips trying to poke their way through her blouse.

"Are you reserving this seat for someone else?"

With flustered expression, shyly looked away, shaking my head, I mumbled some lame excuse.

She wiggled her arse up onto the stool while facing me with a questioning frown on her pretty face. In a puzzled voice, she tried again "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."

Timidly licking my lips, I spoke softly "No. Please accept my apologies. I barely saw you. For a moment there, I thought you were someone else."

"Quite alright, I'm Kate and you are?"

"Kate! Your name is Kate?"

"That's what my Mum would scream out the window to get me home!" She laughed at her own wit.

I froze for a short pause, obviously to gather my scattered wits "Uhmm, Wow! Sorry! Sorry, I'm Gary. Gary White. I thought for a second.....You're going to think me daft!"

I lifted my hand a few inches and showed her the back of it at her, with the gold wedding ring brightly visible.

Expressing total disbelief at the coincidence, I clumsily explained "I, uhh, well, my wife's name is Katie. Your voice, uhh, and uhm, hair, are similar to my Katie's. You ahh, you are a couple of inches taller, she's ohh, a little heavier. You just really, uhhm, surprised me, that's all. I hope I haven't offended you?"

Women never take offense when I tell them they are taller and slimmer than my wife. 'Vanity, Thy Name Is Woman!'

She smirked and giggled and waved her ringed left-hand at me "So Gary...WE are married? Is that so...ahm, sweetheart?"

Then I start crying bitterly into my half-pint of the House's Best Bitters. About how my wife and I are separated. My Katie telling me she wants time to figure out if our marriage is to resume.

I signaled the Barman over to pull another for me to drown my sorrows in.

Kate ordered one of those horrid bottled fruity spritzer things. I know, makes you judder anyone drinking that piss but it does make sense these days. In a bottle with a screwcap, makes it a lot harder for some arsewipe wanker to spike the drink.

This Kate was curious, and then sympathetic, as I explained with tears in my eyes and a catch in my voice. That I had found out just this morning. "My wife, my Katie. Was off to the Costa del Sol with the bastard she's fucking! Her boss and lover."

As I trued to choke down my sobbing, she puts her arm around my shoulders while trying to console me with kind words. Seeing my pain, Kate admitted that her husband was also traveling abroad on business.

A half hour later we were upstairs for a one-off in a conveniently available ensuite. Where this newer Kate was kind-heartily consoling me with a terrific blowjob. As I was doing my best to reciprocate with a vigorous tongue lashing of her cunny.

Her wet tongue and hot mouth was making my 17cm of Love Machine to twitch like a dog with fleas.

Meanwhile to her stern, I was applying my hot tongue all over her fur-trimmed fanny lips. Poking deep into her silken cunt, already flowing with a musky cream. Then broad licks from her clit to her bumhole.

"Ah, there you are!' I exclaimed happily as her tiny pearl shyly peaked out from it's fleshy cloak. A vigorous suckling started off with a shriek, a chain-reaction of squeals, as she mashed her cunt into my face with her heels kicking the back of my head.

When I felt her vagina clutching at my tongue and how her belly muscles were convulsing, I rolled my hips back to pull out of her mouth. If you'd ever been bitten by a woman lost in the paroxysms of a Big O you'd share my precautious reflex.

With her body spasming and shivering as she squealed her way through a first-class orgasm, I took the opportunity to get her turned around and on her back. Folding her knees back to her wobbling tits as I plunged my cock into her cunt with one forceful shove of my hips.

Pubes rubbing pubes, suddenly I stopped and just crouched there between her thighs as I flexed my cock inside her. Her eyes got wide in astonishment. Women practice their Kegel exercises, most do not know there are also exercises for men to learn better control.

Once she realized what I was doing she went wild! Shrieking out my name "Oh Gawd, Gary! Gary, Gary, Gary Oh Gawd!"

Gary the Gawd, I be!

Listen, you scrappys who bore your woman with a simple tedious pump, pump, pump, squirt, roll over and gone to sleep. Get online and look up what you can learn how you could do different from all the other blokes. An education is a terrible thing to waste!

I am not some super stud or Tantric Master. I'm not any bigger then the average bloke nor do I last endless hours. But what I do have, I learned how to use it effectively.

If your woman is grumbling that she doesn't get enough satisfaction. Son, it's on you to man up and improve your game.

Or some bastard like me is going to seduce her away from you!

Kate's hips were rotating like a camshaft as her levator muscles started milking my throbbing cock. And no, I wasn't shooting off yet.

Starting slow, I began moving in and out, just a few centimeters at a time. With my dick swirling around triggering her inner pleasure buttons. While my hands were strongly massaging her rhythmically spasming thighs or tugging at her swollen teats in random lots.

I pushed back in deep and leaned forward to force a sloppy lip-smacking, tongue-twisting kiss on her eager mouth. While giving this Kate a closeup of the desperately soulful, piercing eyes that women confuse for poetic love. The advantage of me having dark blue eyes.

And bloody hell no! I didn't have to waste my time actually reading and memorizing any daft poems.

Thanks to daily pushups, I reared back with her ankles over my shoulders as I started to pound hard with my swollen dick into her flooding fanny.

As she orgasmed again, it was cute how her eyes crossed and these silly high-pitched squeaks came melodiously out of her gaping mouth.

Well, certainly I was making my share of funny faces and grunting noises. Matching the creaking groans of the old fashioned, bed frame of metal bars and metal springs underneath us as we were bouncing around.

My cock swelled up even more as it started to pulsate with my jackulations spray painting her cervix. I thought the top of my head blew off as I came.

Finally I collapsed to the side as we both huffed and puffed and wheezed our mutual satisfaction.

We cuddled for a few, then I told her I needed to take a piss. While I was in the WC I cleaned myself up a little. Then took a damp facecloth and a towel out to her so she could cleanup enough to walk across our chamber without dripping all over.

Blocking her way, I gazed deep into her eyes for an endless second. Then gave her a thorough kiss before before releasing her to enter the loo.

I was mostly dressed when she came out. 'Stone the crows!' She is a scrumptiously edible crumpet naked. But I am determined to remain a moving target.

After a moments hesitation, gazing at her erotic display with a look of passionate longing. I reached into a pocket and whipped out a pen and a business card. Writing the number for my current personal mobile on the back. I handed it over to her.

She looked at the side showing I was a Publisher's Agent. And the other, where I had written my number. Then back up at me with a wary expression.

Once more, I gave her the desperately soulful, piercing eyes that women confuse for elegiac passion. I think it's those ridiculous Romantic genre books they all read? Convincing the silly gels that a good shagging is the introduction to 'True Love!'.

I expressed my sorrow that I had a working dinner to go to with an major client. How much I hated leaving my new Kate behind. Then I have fly up to Glasgow for a few days, to try and woo back a disgruntled author.

"Maybe in a fortnight, we could get together for a weekend? If you are available?" With a yearning look promising desires to be consummated.

She appeared noncommittal but oh, so luscious!

Another rousing kiss, clutching her pale pink nudity against the rough wool of my tweed jacket. Telling her to call me about the middle of the week following. Let me know that she will be free for the weekend.

Then I was out of there. Already prepaid so I just had to drop the key at the front desk. I made certain to tell the counterman that my companion will be down soon. To send the housekeeper to straighten up the room. It conveniences the staff, since many of their rooms rent by the hour.

Reminding my well-fucked, temporarily spoused, that she needs to go. Preventing extra charges on my plastic.

One curious thing I've noticed is, that none of the birds never seem to notice that I never have any luggage in what is suppose to be my accommodations?

Bricking my way out the street door, I jump into the first hack at hand. Then off to the local train station, where I will catch a different taxi to my actual hotel.

Knackered out from this day's skullduggery in shaggery, I settled back into the vinyl covered seat. Musing over this afternoon's catch-of-the-day. It would be nice if she is willing to have a repeat performance. Have to wait and see if she rings me up. How this might play out with future assignations.

She had explained that her important husband was temporarily away somewhere important overseas. Doing something important with some important personage of interest for some important part of Her Majesty's Government. I'm sure.

How importunus of me to borrow his spouse for an afternoon's rogering!

Yeah I know. How do you Yanks put it? I'm an arsehole. You have noooo idea!

Here I am cuckolding this Kate's husband just as my wife Katie's boss is cuckolding me.

What a complete tosser I am!

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Realistic Imagineering

The key to this con is claiming my unfaithful, nonexistent wife has the same name and similar looks to the bird I'm trying to cozen into a cozy.

I came up with this scheme a few years ago off the cuff and so far it has been a reasonably successful source of temporary, usually hassle-free female companionship.

Since of course, even though my faked wife has 'betrayed' me. I profess that am still deeply in love with the woman I am avowed to. Despite her infidelities. Or my own....hmmmm?

Whenever I need to break off with my latest conquest, I tell her that my fictitious wife wants to return to me for a reconciliation. My imaginatived spouse professing she still loves me and seeking to fix our phony marriage with counseling. So, on that sad note. It's 'Hasta la vista baybee!' every time.

I invented this gimmick on an impulse while trying to influence a Jennifer into bed. She was good for almost a week of hot sex. When she figured out I wasn't interested in any more of a relationship then the shaggings, she tossed me out. Loudly urging me to bugger off and die painfully!

Being the Gentleman Toff I am, obediently off I buggered. Though so far I must admit my failure at the dying bit.

My apologies to Jennifer but that this is just another one of Life's disappointments for her to have to endure.

Realizing the need to refine my methodology. I concocted a fake identity. Gary White was born. I am so proud of my bouncy baby boy Gary, when gullible women take the bait. Hook, line and sinker! Maybe I should write fiction?

To make it more difficult for the enraptured to track me down, I have acquired a fake id for Gary White, with an online banking debit card account plus tarted up business cards identifying me as a fake publisher's fake agent for a fake firm with a fake address.

I write on the back of the cards, the number for a temporary throw-away mobile for the women to contact me. Simple to get a new number with a new pre-paid phone as needed with each bird.

Oh, uhmm, yes. That is a real gold wedding ring I am wearing. I found it mixed in with a cigar box of odds and ends mementos accumulated by one of my grandmothers. Somehow winding up in my junk drawer. A couple of bob to have it resized for me, was money well spent!

It was a pleasant surprise to me, when I realized the additional magical effects of wearing this gold band. "One Ring To Rule Them All!"

Huh, if I took up Kinbaku, I could use the line "One Ring to find them and in the Darkness, Bind them!"

Those odd times when I do not want to get laid, for whatever reason. Yeah? Well sometimes I just don't have the urge! As I said, I am not some fictional porn-star, on-tap 24/7. I'll leave those delusions to your lack of writing skills.

Mayhap I'd begetting a bad vibe off the bird who approached me. If you can't trust your own sense of self-preservation? Whointhehell are you going to trust? As the saying goes, first impressions communicate what type of a person you want others to believe of you.

And no Anonymousie, please stop offering me your wife to shag with you in the corner watching us as you wank off. I'm shy. I have no interest in feeding your appetite for creampies.

An important part of my evil method is the research I have done, going through the local guidebooks for a list of pubs where they have rooms to let.

Get the silly cows liquored up to reduce their inhibitions. On top of setting off their sympathy genes. Compelling them to want to console the poor, dear, suffering man. Abandoned so heartlessly by his unfaithful wife. Who he so deeply loves. Yadda, yadda and so forth.

Everything happens so fast, the birds don't have time to reconsider before I have them up the stairs. I have them on them backs, and I have them legs spread. I pound out a grand chorus of 'Pomp & Circumstance' and then, I have them begone. I call this the hasty-pudding method.

Aren't I a snarker!

Another way to see this is, as long as I am buying the rounds, the thirsty cows are willing to listen to my sad tale as told by a glib bugger.

I know, I know, kind of being cynical here but it's still the truth. In Alcohol is a Variety of Truths. Fuck! That's a good one. I just have to remember to write this stuff down.

For all the travel I do, I would never actually stay at such an Inn. Too noisy with the pub below, in addition to the endless middle of town traffic and speaking of which, no where to safely park my Aston Martin. This all cuts down the chances of running into anyone who knows me.

I must own every published tourist guide for the Isle's and try to avoid repeating my fucking tour of dear old England. It would be embarrassing if a former fuckee caught me while I was wooing a new victim.

The best hotels to actually stay at are the posh chains favored by the American business travelers. Their innate, bloated sense of entitlement, insures not totally unreasonably overpriced, quality graded accommodations. And safe, convenient parking.

Most tourists are too cheap to pay those rates. While business expense accounts wind up being tax deductible. Mine are.

A couple of quickie chippies followed my time shagging Jennifer. I don't remember their names.

Then there was Paulette, a couple of months after Jennifer. She actually lasted the longest of any of my fake wife doppelgängers. Almost three months, before she wised up and realized what an absolute rotter is Gary White.

Besides, her husband was due back. She was a school teacher in Worcester, I think. Whose husband was a Merchant Marine officer, gone three out of every four months of the year.

Hmm, I wonder? Now that I reconsider, maybe she wasn't so gullible after all? I mean, I only had her word on it about the husband.

Sauce for the gander, perhaps?

First rule: don't piss in your own soup. I never try to pull this con near my firm's offices or where I lease my flat or in the pubs of the hotels I sleep at.

My real job is very mobile. I get more mileage then a hack driver. I've seen the inside of more hotel rooms then a hundred euro whore.

All over the British Isles and regularly on the continent. Jeanne, Hilda?, Sonja, Maria & Teresa (what a week in Rome!), another Hilda, Belle, Chantrace? and Adriel?

2002, I had to do a lengthy trip to BC Canada, Michelle. And then on to NSW, Australia, Charlene? and Emily. New Zealand, Rosita. Western Australia, Molly. Finally South Africa {don't even ask me how to pronounce her name!}before home again to the sunny shores of dear old England.

Yeah I know, I'm an arsehole. By the by, I did mention that my real name is not Gary White?

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It's A Dog Eat Dog World

I'm actually Samuel Tannery. The Sixth, as if you cared. One glorious day to inherit the utterly useless title of Baron.

In addition to the stupendous honor of coming into a patrimony of an unbuildable wasteland of a thousand or so hectares of scrubby boggy moor. With a rambling large, run down, stone-walled, straw thatched cottage. Being on the fucking National Trust Special Heritage list, means this trashtip cannot be modernized to even a pretense of comfortable.

The only thing commendable about my dear pater's leavings, are the property's shooting rights and two decent fishing streams.

That's what my father lives off of. Licensing to the sporting gents who visit and stay with him during each season.

When they are not out shooting or fishing, the toffs are drinking themselves comatose on the cheap whiskey Tannery the Fifth provides.

He rebottles it into Scotch Bottles he salvaged (i.e. burgled) from glass recycler bins. Not that any of that pretentious bunch of sots could tell the difference.

To avoid the Infernal Revenue, the good Baron Samuel the Fifth doesn't charge for drink or food or shelter. It's all lumped in with the outrageous fees his guests pay to shoot or fish.

Lumpy bunk-beds to match the lumpy oatmeal for breakfast. Cold water showers in memory of all those endless years of anguished buggery during their boyhoods imprisoned in British Public Schools.

Bulk-pack meat-pies for lunch. Mystery meat and factory cheese sandwiches for Tea. Then whatever was shot or fished in season, with boiled or roasted potatoes for supper. Oh yes! And of course, lumpy gravy out of a can.

Pater does keep a pack of gun dogs, he has specially bred. Crossing Curly Retrievers with Liver & White Pointers into a versatile reliable gun dog with a tough but striking coat.

Da has another petition in to the RBKC to designate this sub-breed?/hybrid? as Tannery Gunners. I'd have to guess this would be the dozenth time or two they've rejected his petition?

Come to think of it, his third stream of income is selling pups. The guests probably purchase them to gift their grandchildren.

Concerned about getting forced by the National Trust into the public park system. My father has refused, with colorful Anglo-Saxon argot, requests for tours from birding and photography groups. He has only had to shoot a couple of camera totting trespassers as 'poachers'. The local police are local born and share Da's local surly towards outsiders.