Once a Slut...?

"He wanted it," she said. "He asked me if I would,... and I was shocked,...that he would want me to,... but when he'd said it several times, it seemed like doing it might keep things going,... I mean, our marriage was not good by then,..."

"How long ago was that?" I asked.

She looked down at her hands, which were both holding her martini glass. Embarrassment, maybe, not meeting my eyes as she answered a question asked uncomfortably soon.

"Two years," she said. Then, moving the conversation back to me, "And you? Have you been,... long?"

"Just a few months," I said. "I got divorced a while back. It seemed,..."

She looked up from her hands again.

"Anonymous?" she offered. "No strings?"

"Both, I guess," I confirmed, then paused. "So you did it just for him?"

She nodded. Then told me more.

"We were going through a bad patch," she said. "He said he felt we needed something more,... exciting,... showed me the site you found us on,... said if the other women could than why not me,... if he did not mind, then it did not matter really."

"Except it mattered to you?" I wondered out loud, to her.

She nodded again.

"You can get used to anything," she said. "If you close off your mind to what is happening."

"You never enjoyed it?"

"I'd get aroused," she said. She looked me in the eye, smiling a little as she added, "You must have noticed, when you,..."

This time I nodded, confirming what she had not quite said. She had been delightfully wet and slick, and so easy to enter. But I made no comment, so as to leave her space to say something more.

"I'm a woman," she said, by way of explanation of what she said next. "My body responds. So, most times, yes, I'd come, if that's what you meant by 'did I enjoy it'."

She paused, ready to add something, but not quite yet.

"But?"

"But, I never liked that it was happening."

"That's what I felt, with you," I said. "That I wasn't meant to be doing it that way with you. You were better than that. You deserved more."

"I don't deserve anything," she answered. "You saw how he thinks of me. I mean, the,... the tattoo. Anyone who lets men do the things they do, I guess, must be what that says I am."

"He had that done?" I asked. The word on her right buttock. The tattooed stamp with its decorative surround, and the four letters inside. Upper case, for emphasis.

She looked out of the bar window. Her eyes were watering again.

"When we got to double figures," she said. "He said that I deserved it. And that he would prove it to me. That was when it started being once a week. Thursday nights. He said it turned him on to watch me, and made him want me at the weekend. It kept him interested. In sex, I guess. Not me."

A control freak. Mental manipulation. He had asked her to do it, and then condemned her for allowing it, but still wanted her to carry on. Nothing loving. A kind of domination. A nasty kind. Self centred. I could feel the tightening of my stomach wall with anger. A sense of outrage that I needed to restrain.

"You never thought to leave him?"

She looked at me, surprised at the question, puzzled that I should even need to ask.

"Of course," she said. "Every single Thursday I would think this was the last time. And then I would think about having to admit my marriage was a sham, the biggest mistake that anyone could make, and maybe if I carried on, somehow, sometime, he might come to love me again, and everything would be okay."

I sat silent, but my hand moved. It reached for hers, covering it. Her small hand, pure white flesh and bone, overlaid by mine, larger, stronger that hers could ever be.

She used the paper napkin that had been placed on the table when our drinks arrived and dabbed at each blue eye in turn.

"I'm sorry," she said. "That wasn't supposed to happen."

She forced a smile. Those eyes could be so bright.

"I thought,.." she said. "I mean,... I wondered if you'd like to,... to finish,... without him watching,... since you were promised that,... and I don't like to break a promise."

That took me by surprise. All she had suggested on the phone was to meet to have a drink, for her to apologise to me. Not for us to finish what we had started in the bedroom on the fourteenth floor.

My brain split in two directions. I liked her. I liked the woman that she was. Sensitive, open, honest, giving, even principled, wanting to meet a commitment made. In another life, had I met her before the woman that I had married and divorced, I would have wined and dined her, maybe more, far more. The last thing that I wanted was to fuck her to fulfill a sordid web-site deal.

Except, I also could not help responding to her physical allure. The sexual attraction was strong, undeniable, too strong to resist. It ran through every fibre of my being. It had made my cock hard even just sitting there, talking about who we each were. I knew her body from before. I knew the whiteness of it. I knew her nipple stubs, brown, almost spherical, set on creamy flesh. I knew her butt so well, could picture her as she had been, kneeling, the 'slut' offering a choice of apertures. No woman had ever turned me on as much as she.

"I reserved a room for us," she said, smiling at my hesitation. "You aren't about to walk away again? Are you?"

It was not about the arrangement I had made with them, the husband and his wife, to be a bull for them, to fuck the wife. It was because I wanted to make love to this woman, forget that she was ever married, forget how we had met, what she had done before. I wanted her.

The fourteenth floor again. A different room. Same view, just twenty or thirty feet to one side of the previous view, but London had not changed. Everything about my world was suddenly so different, but London stayed the same.

Once inside, she stood, neat, compact, hesitant, vulnerable, gorgeous.

I walked to her. She melted into me. Her lips were soft. Her mouth opened. Tongues touched, then danced together. Mouths interlocked for long minutes, we devoured each other. Then broke away. Still held each other, no longer lips against lips, but eyes so deeply centred on each other's eyes.

"I didn't mean for that to happen," she said. "I just,..."

An apology for another rule just shattered. You do not kiss. Those who think the ultimate act of intimacy is to slide a cock inside a cunt know nothing of true, tender love. One thing is far more intimate than that. A lover's kiss, where opening the mouth is opening your heart and soul. French kiss, for they know everything there is to know of love, the ravenous gorging on another's mouth and lips and tongue. That is for lovers only.

First rule for any bull. You do not kiss the wife on the lips. You fuck her any way you chose. You enjoy her lips around your cock. Deep throat her, if that is in her repertoire. Finger her, cunt fuck her, go anal, anything you want. But do not kiss her lips. That is the ultimate insult to the man she chose to marry. It demeans him, as her husband, and as a guy. Only lovers kiss. And we had kissed.

Eyes continued gazing into eyes. I felt myself drowning in those blue pools. But human bodies are much more than eyes alone, and they have needs and longings. Fingers felt for buttons, slid down zips. Shoes were heeled off. Jackets slipped down arms. Shirt and blouse were taken off, not by the wearer but by the person wanting the other's flesh. Socks removed. Skirt and trousers pushed down over hips, stepped out of. Bra unclipped. G-string removed. Boxers too.

"Should I?" she asked, about her stockings and suspender belt.

I shook my head. She smiled, embarrassed, the memory of the last time she had been wearing nothing but those items still so vivid for us both.

We locked bodies. Now my arms around her felt her flesh. Her breasts were pressed against me. Those round nipples got so hard. So firm. One hand around my neck, the other wrapped around my cock. That too was hard. She knelt in front of me.

The softness and the warmth of those lips and mouth were just so wonderful. It felt like I was a god, and she was the devoted worshipper at my unholy, carnal shrine. Giving herself to me. Her body willingly surrendered, sacrificed, my cock, soon to be the stake that would rip her core apart. But gently, tenderly, with what I dared not think was love.

Nature interrupts nature, spoils the moment. I needed her, but needed something else as well. I took her by her arms and raised her, held her again, kissed her forehead, cheek, and lips again, and then apologised. Asked her for a moment. Excused myself, feeling bad that she was left standing naked, waiting.

I did as nature had demanded, managing with my cock still rigid, and then returned to her. She was waiting by the bed, as she had been before, not this room, but the other. Kneeling, her stockinged legs on the unforgiving floor. Her upper body on the bed itself. Her arms outstretched. An offering of flesh and bone and blood. Her butt so perfect, framed by black nylon and the gleaming leather of her suspender belt, perfect other than the profanity of that one short word, dense ink, jet black, imprinted on her, 'slut'.

I walked across to her, knowing what I did not want and what I did. I took one outstretched arm and turned her, put one arm beneath her and lifted her entire body, one hundred pounds of exquisite femininity, and laid her fully on the bed.

Five short minutes just before, she had worshipped at my tumescent cock. Now I worshipped at her own fragrant shrine. Her cunt. Those shells of labia, her sweet slit. Her entrance. I kissed all around it, lapped at it, licked it, tongue teased it, probed, played at her clit, kissed it some more, and lapped and licked again, probed deeper, tongue caressed that pulsing clitoris, kissed more, lapped, licked, teased, kissed, probed and on and on.

Her parted thighs grazed my shoulders as I worshipped there, nylon against my skin. My hands held her by her waist, feeling the leather tight around her there. Her own soft hands caressed my head. Soft moans escaped her other lips. Mews of delight. Gasps of sweet pleasure. Low groans of deep contentment. She shivered and shuddered and trembled and juddered and quivered, and her hands held me closer, my mouth devouring her delicious cunt, consuming that tender flesh, tasting the honey it exuded from within, her secreted nectar, bestowed by Venus for man's temptation and delight.

The explosion came so fast and furious that it actually took me by surprise. She wailed, a cry so loud and awe inspiring that it filled the entire room, shook furniture made the windows nearly shatter, and must have told the entire hotel floor that woman had hit volcanic orgasm, with unbridled ecstasy. Her body writhed beneath me, twisting and turning on the bed, squirming, thrashing, struggling to be free of my tongue and of the intensity of touch on the million nerve endings crammed within the soft nub of her sweet clit.

It was sheer beauty come alive in glorious, slow motion. Witnessing her coming was pure heaven. I loved how she had responded to what had been my oral love, offered directly to the centre of her sexual being, my mouth communicating everything I had not known I felt.

Then she lay, panting, in recovery, regaining her composure and her breath, eventually opening those eyes, daring to meet mine, smiling in contentment, parting her lips and asking me one question.

"Would you like to fuck me now?"

I would never want to disappoint this woman. I moved up her body. Differing heights meant that as I eased my cock into her slit, her head was now below mine, eyes level with my chin, her lips kissing at my neck.

I had been there before, had slid into that cunt from behind, had felt its tight warmth, enjoyed its slickness, but that had been no more than brief penetration, the start of fucking that had been ended even before it had properly begun, for that time I had unfucked her, pulled out, and left, uneasy with the scene that time.

Now I relished in that same slick tightness. I revelled in sinking to the full depth that cock can reach in cunt. I screwed into her. Nail a cunt, and just like nails in timber, however hard they may be hammered in, they may still be pulled back out. Screwing stays fixed forever. So I screwed her. This was a cunt I wanted to be mine. I wanted it to know my cock as its possessor.

She knew my thoughts. Her arms wrapped themselves around my back. She clung to me. Holding me tight. Then her legs, ankles locking, pulling herself to me, cunt to groin, forcing my cock that fraction deeper, head pressed against womb, the two centres of our beings welded together, two bodies made one, moving in unison.

I shifted her from side to side as we fucked one another, my hands easing their way beneath her back, one higher than the other, so that instead of meeting, they passed one another, holding her slender frame tight, torsos clamped together, the mounds of her breasts flattened by my chest. This was rapture. This was nirvana. This was heaven. Being so close to her, inside of her, locked to her, spewing within her, spurting my essence, my very being, filling her womb.

She screamed again, a gasping, groaning, moaning cry of bliss. Her body quaked again, shuddering in my arms. She used every muscle in her slender arms and legs to pull herself not just close, but to become a part of me, to have her body meld into mine, become one being with me. And then she howled. I looked down, and tears flowed on her face, trickling down the sides of her head, dampening her hair.

We both stopped. Motionless, we waited for the intensity of orgasmic feelings to subside. My cock twitched with satisfaction, softly grazing flesh within her womb. I sensed the greater wetness there. My essence, semen, surrounding my own cock head, bathing it in erotic bliss.

"Wow," she said eventually, no longer beneath me, but lying by my side, head on my shoulder.

"Do you always make your women feel like that?" she asked.

"Do you always make your men,..." I started, before deciding that it was not the thing to ask.

"Maybe,..." I said instead. "Maybe I haven't found a woman who makes me feel the way you do."

"A slut like me?" she asked.

"That's not what you are," I said.

"It might be what I am," she said, "but this time, it wasn't how you made me feel."

Somehow we managed eventually to extricate ourselves from the comfort of each other's bodies on the bed. We used the en suite, together, showering one another. We dried each other. We dressed, separately, back into our respective business suits. We left the room. Travelled down the fourteen floors of smooth elevator ride, not talking, taking in the magnitude of what had just happened, the heights that we had reached together, from which we were now forced to gradually descend. All the way down that elevator shaft, her hand was soft in mine.

Outside, we kissed again, breaking that rule, that bulls do not kiss wives, holding each other. At that moment, I did not feel myself to be a bull. Just a man, holding a woman. The woman looked up at me with eyes so blue and thanked me. Then she was gone.

**********

I was not ready for all of that. I did not want all those feelings. It was supposed to be no strings sex. Clean and unencumbered. No commitment. No complications. Emotional empty. Just fucking, for fucks sake. That was all that it should ever be, with someone else's wife.

Not that emotions ever ask your permission to be there. They take you unawares. They sneak within and grow inside you, an embryo that may grow slowly, or may swell and expand at lightning speed, suddenly overpowering all your rational thought. It was like that with her. Thoughts of her preyed on my mind, took up every moment of each successive day, overwhelmed my waking hours and filled my dreams.

Most of those thoughts were warm and deep and tender and, although I tried to avoid the strength of saying the word, even inwardly, just to myself, the fact is they were loving too. Try as I might, I could not deny those feelings. Something about her had reached into my soul and touched me there. Her honesty, sincerity, kind-heartedness, all had touched me. A woman who did all her husband asked of her, to hold together their flawed relationship, could never be a slut, not in my eyes. This woman I had found was closer to a saint.

I thought too of her beauty, this always being in the eyes of the beholder, but her demure, petite figure, snow white complexion, jet black hair, and sky blue eyes, were more than I had ever dreamed of. I had set eyes upon an angel.

My cock thought of her too, far from innocent thoughts in its independent head. Its thoughts of her were sexual, carnal, sensual in nature. It remembered how her cunt had felt, its wetness, warmth and tightness. It pictured her solely as the naked, pure white flesh to be consumed with lust, nipples to be teased and bitten, lips to be kissed, but also to be wrapped around hard shaft, legs to be parted, butt to be spanked, punished for the desire that it induced, that tattoo so wonderfully apt, so well deserved, and so intensely earned, as viewed by my cock's lascivious head, the single word describing all she had done and loved to do, her cunt created purely to be fucked, that had been fucked so often, and by so many other men.

My head did calculations. Two years ago, it started. They met men every week, each Thursday being fuck-day, always with someone new. I was only too aware just how many weeks are in a year, and I could multiply that by two. Even allowing for a more gradual exploration at the start, perhaps monthly at the beginning, the number would still be high. Higher than the women I had made love to. That white flesh so often sullied and dirtied and made impure. Yet deep inside, not the depths where she had been fucked and where cocks had exploded and jetted semen into her, but deeper, in her heart of hearts, she still seemed so wholesome and so pure.

My head said, walk away. She is his wife. You have no right to her. My heart said she was already part of me. Claim her. My head told me there was no way for me to do that. My heart said, find a way. My head said that she might not want me as I wanted her. My heart said try, you cannot know unless you ask the question of her.

Three entire days of thoughts and feelings, images, instincts, passion and emotion, hungers, cravings, dark desires, lusts, urges, aches, of mental agony, tortured thinking, and then I woke from yet another sleepless night, knowing that the calendar had brought that day to be a Thursday. Fuck-day.

Same hotel. Same bar. Same crowd, or if not the same people, then their genotype. Just two men on their own. Not hard to know which one would be bull of the week. Thirties, reasonably good looking. The other was too old. More than sixty. Not this couple's type. The thirties guy was at the bar, sipping something amber. Whiskey or cognac. Near the end of the tumbler. That, at least, was good.

"I think you may be waiting for someone," I said.

He looked perplexed. I was not who he expected. I was alone, no wife with me. It was her photo on the web-site, not her husband's, so this bull would not know who to look for, other than her.

"I might be," he said.

"She can't make it, not tonight," I said. "Something unexpected."

Hold yourself straight, stand confidently, use your voice, not loud, but strong and firm, and you will convince. I did not say that I was the husband, but he assumed.

"Oh, right," he said. "A pity. I was looking forward to,... meeting her."

Polite. A gentleman. There are still some around, even in their thirties. But then they had vetted carefully before inviting me, so why not him as well. Perhaps they only met with gentlemen.

"Can I pay for your drink?" I said. "By way of compensation?"