Having My Cake

This is an entirely true story, including as much of the events, locations and dialogue as I can remember. My name is Amanda and I do live in South London, but then I'm not alone.

This should probably be in the Loving Wives section since that's what I am – and continue to be. But I've seen the comments some of that section's visitors choose to leave and I'd rather not encourage them. This was a truly erotic encounter, one that provided me with much pleasure both at the time and as I recalled it and wrote it down.

Feel free to email me if you'd like to – not to complain please, but to share similar incidents maybe? I've had some pretty wild (if monogamous) times with my husband and this is the only 'extra-marital' fun I've had and I just had to get it out of my system. But if I get a good reaction I'd love to write more – perhaps in partnership with some willing literotica writer? Either way, it would be good to hear from someone. A x

1

I've always been a bit of a... well, what shall we say... a dirty cow? Bit of a wannabe whore on the quiet.

I'd be the first to admit it. I've always liked to get grubby... I relish the sordid, the taboo, the smells and sounds, the sweaty and sticky reality of good, uninhibited sex. I'm not the sort to dash off to the shower right after... I like to feel my pussy full of come when I wake and I love the taste of a cock that's just been inside me. I agree with Woody Allen – is sex dirty? Only if you do it right.

You'd never know it though. I hold down a top management job, I'm bright, kind of conservative most of the time - people even tell me I'm a little bit 'posh' and they're probably right. I was brought up by well-off parents in a family that had become rich off some distant predecessor's luck in the colonies. I was the first female member in living memory to have anything like a proper job.

If only my relatives and colleagues knew the other me... how much time I spend thinking about sex... the kind of things I get up to after a bottle or two of red wine with my husband Tony – a man who I never cheated on in twenty-one years and who fully appreciates my slutty alter ego.

We met at university and clicked sexually from day one. Toys, porn, fantasies, anal sex, a few soft drugs now and then, writing erotic stories for each other - we tried pretty much everything. And these days we still looked forward to nights when the kids were on a sleep-over...

Eventually our second son left for university and suddenly we were free to really indulge ourselves. We started enjoying London again - went out for meals, to shows and movies. I lost some weight, bought new lingerie, began wearing proper heels again - and stockings... every day. I do love wearing stockings. We went shopping for new toys, tried out some new lubes and massage oils and spent entire weekends – sometimes in local hotels just for the hell of it - just fucking the way we knew how.

Then a couple of weeks ago, after one long, particularly intense session, Tony lay on his back, strangely silent. He had just made me come twice as I straddled him, the second time thanks to a new, rather lifelike dildo he had eased all the way into my bottom.

As he'd pressed it home I'd reached back to let it slide through my fingers, feeling its warmth and the soft texture... the veins... then coming rapidly as I imagined it being the real cock of some faceless stranger. Tony had stared into my eyes as I gasped, asking me how it felt, knowing my thoughts and wanting to elaborate the fantasy as I ground myself back onto it.

"Is that good... that big, fat cock in your arse, hmmm? That's it sweetheart, really milk it... gonna make it explode... yeah... imagine that... squeezing a good, hard cock till it floods your arse with a huge load of hot cum... "

I'd felt myself open up to him, almost sucking that dildo all the way in as I rode his cock deep into my soaking pussy, coming for what seemed like minutes as I pictured some anonymous stud emptying his balls into my grateful bowels.

Tony had come at exactly the same time and we had clung to each other several minutes before I rolled slowly off him and we lay there recovering our breath.

"Tell me something Mandy... I mean, don't take this wrong – we're probably closer now than we've ever been and I don't think anything could change that. But it's been on my mind..."

He turned toward me, head on hand, looking into my eyes.

"Tell you what?"

"Have you ever actually been with another guy during our time together? Or been tempted?"

I was genuinely surprised by the question. And a little offended.

"No hun, never. You know that – we've always told each other everything. Why? Why suddenly ask me that now?"

It was the truth. Sure, I'd had plenty of opportunities – countless nights away on business and numerous propositions after boozy evenings in hotel bars. But flattered and amused as I always was, I had never taken things any further.

Tony stubbed out his cigarette and leaned over to kiss a still-erect nipple.

"I dunno... I've just been thinking, y'know... I mean it's not as if we haven't fantasised about it... and just now – admit it. As far as you were concerned that was a real cock fucking your arse... wasn't it?"

I felt myself blush and no other response was needed. Tony continued.

"I just want you to know that... well, if it ever happened that... that you wanted to, y'know, let things take their course... that it wouldn't be the end of the world."

I stared back at him, wondering about his motive for such a strange offer. Yes, we had brought the idea of 'another guy' into our sessions many times and it always works for both of us. But then from what I've learned that's true for countless couples and believe me, it's just as exciting an idea for women as it is for men.

"OK... and you're saying that because you love me so much and want me to have a new experience? Or because it would be a nice little turn-on for you?"

Oh... both hun. I just think it's something you should know – that if you did have a little fun some time, that it's something you could tell me about. It's sort of a win-win thing really... yes it would be strange for me, but also a massive turn-on.."

"And for me? How's that supposed to work out for me?"

"Well hopefully it would work out as you getting subjected to some sustained and satisfying naughtiness with some guy of your choice. It works out as you having a golden ticket for some erotic misbehaviour... you telling me that doesn't appeal at all?"

It was weird. I was shocked by what he was suggesting, but I had to acknowledge it - the thought of the freedom he had just offered me really was kind of exciting. My head knew it as such, and as a warm gout of cum trickled out of me and onto my thigh, so did my pussy.

Not that anything would come of it. I was forty-three with all the lumps, bumps, sags and wrinkles that go with it. The last time anyone had shown that sort of interest in me was a year or so back at a conference and it had been a very drunk guy ten years older than me with bad breath and hairy ears. But It was fun talking about it as always, and with the very real prospect of getting Tony's dick hard again, I decided to pursue his train of thought.

"So you'd want to know everything would you? Every little detail... everything we did?"

"Oh yeah... everything you did... said... thought... who made the moves, what he was like... I'd want to hear it all. As I fucked you senseless, naturally..."

"I see..."

I saw his cock twitch as he pictured the scenario and reached for him.

"And you'd want that to happen when? Right away? You'd be like... waiting up for me would you?"

"I didn't say it had to be planned hun... though it could be. No – I was really just saying that you could be... y'know... spontaneous about it. Christ's sake Mandy, I know you have opportunities..."

"Mmmm... but when would I tell you then... should I rush back? Wake you up to give me a second session?"

I felt him harden slightly and he smiled, knowing I was starting to enjoy the direction this was taking. I slowly lowered my face to his cock, smelling myself on him before gently kissing its tip and licking at a last drop of come. Without meeting his eyes I moaned slightly before continuing.

"So would I have time to shower first?"

I took him in my mouth, feeling the blood race into his fattening cock as he spoke.

"I think not hun... I think I'd like you to smell like you'd just got fucked... the sweat... the cum... whatever... don't you think?"

We didn't say much more after that. We didn't need to. Within minutes we were fucking like teenagers again and this time, as I came, all kinds of new and confusing thoughts were running through my head as I yelled out loud enough to wake the neighbours.

2

A couple of months later I got a call from an aunt of mine, Cynthia - an artist. She invited me to an exhibition she was having in a small gallery in Central London. Tony couldn't stand her and declined, although he was keen for me to go. But we ended up rowing about her – and my family in general who he finds pretentious and snobbish. He's right as it happens, but I set off that evening resenting his opinions and looking forward to catching up with a few cousins I hadn't seen in ages.

Aunt Cynthia was an old-fashioned woman of means who expected her relatives to 'make an effort'. It was a warm, summer evening so I picked out an old fifties style dress that had belonged to my mother – a thin, floral printed number, tightly fitted above but with a billowing, calf-length skirt.

I would normally have gone bare-legged, but recalling Cynthia's views on what constituted a proper turnout for a woman of our 'standing' I pulled on an equally 'retro' white suspender belt and a pair of plain tan stockings.

My knicker drawer was virtually empty, with everything going through the wash – nothing but a couple of the very sheer, very miniscule thongs Tony and I had bought some weeks back that I'd never worn outside of the house. I slipped one on – it looked incongruous with the somewhat functional girdle/suspender belt, but who cared – it would be my little bit of rebellion.

Finally I tried on my newest, spikiest heels, but the look was all wrong for Cynthia and I swapped them for some old court shoes I kept for interviews and the like. I stepped in front of the full-length mirror to appraise the result – not so bad really. Not the new me exactly, but spot on for the company of the rich, smug and idle.

I left Tony at his computer with a can of lager (with plenty in the fridge) and walked to the Tube feeling pleased with myself and anticipating a few good catch-up chats over some half-decent free wine.

The exhibition was disappointing – dull landscapes mostly. Cynthia wasn't the greatest of painters and only around twenty of us turned up, including all the most boring and eccentric members of my family with their equally boring partners. Feeling obliged to hang around to the end I wound up hitting the white wine far too hard and by ten I was pretty well hammered.

I managed to make all the right noises to all the right people though but it wasn't until I escaped into the West End night that the booze really hit me and I immediately got on the wrong train. Within no time I found myself in Battersea, miles off route and with no idea what to do next.

Any other night I would have phoned Tony to come and get me, but this was 'beer night' for him and it wasn't even worth making the call. I headed out onto the main road to look for a taxi. Damn the expense I thought.

It being a Friday evening, South London's bright young things were out in force, heading for pubs and clubs. There were girls everywhere, tottering along in stilettos, acres of tanned thigh on view, laughing and flirting. And there was me, middle-aged, 'tired and emotional' and just trying to get back to boring old home.

I vainly tried hailing a few cabs but they were all spoken for and I was soon staggering up and down the noisy road, one hand flapping about at disinterested cabs and the other holding down my dress against a blustery wind that threatened to show the world what I was wearing underneath it.

Close to tears and suddenly in urgent need of a pee, I had just decided to try the train again when a voice spoke close behind me.

"Excuse me... Miss?"

I turned round to find a guy following me. He must have been around thirty, tall and slim in a good suit and stripy shirt – a classic City type. Or maybe just another estate agent – I never found out.

I stopped and just stood there, clutching at my dress as the warm summer breeze whipped around me. He smiled, a little patronisingly, but a nice smile nevertheless.

"You er.... You just seem a little distressed. I was just wondering if I could help."

"I'm fine ... I just need a bloody loo and a cab, that's all. Thanks anyway..."

I turned away but he caught me up, blocking my way.

"Well then, I can help. I was looking to get a cab myself – where you trying to get to?"

"Dulwich... It's not that far but... oh Christ I need a loo!"

He looked around quickly then took me by the arm.

"OK then, first things first – there's a wine bar across the road. They know me in there and I'm sure they won't mind you just using theirs ... come on."

Having little choice I let him lead me across the busy road and into the bar, where sure enough the staff greeted him. Seems his name was Ben, though it never came up in our subsequent conversation. I came out of the ladies loo much calmer but still frazzled to find him at the bar chatting to the barman who had just set down a small beer and what looked like a large Spritzer.

"Hope you don't mind..."

He pushed the Spritzer toward me, exchanging what appeared to be a knowing nod with the barman who moved away grinning.

"Thought you could collect yourself over a drink first, then we'll see about getting you home. I live in Forest Hill – we can share a cab if you like."

I ignored the drink and looked him up and down as best I could, given a certain lack of control over my eyes. But I wasn't too drunk to know he was coming on to me.

Chivalry is dead - I don't care what they say. And young guys don't go out of their way on a Friday night to help damsels in distress, specially damsels my age who are naive enough to get drunk and lost just a couple of miles from home.

Still, I was a big girl – figuratively speaking – and I wasn't too concerned about his intentions, as long as I got home somehow. And in a cab I'd be safe enough if he turned weird.

"How are we going to get one?" I slurred a little.

"I already called a firm I use. Be here in about twenty minutes."

He picked up the drinks and headed for a corner table looking over his shoulder.

"Shall we?"

I suddenly felt slightly amused by it all. Here I was in a rather trendy South London bar with a fairly presentable young guy buying me a drink I really didn't need. But what the hell, it had been a dull evening and there was no harm in it. I thought of Tony, probably still at the computer or slumped in front of the TV.

And I suddenly recalled the strange conversation we'd had that night. As I slid onto a chair I let out a quiet chuckle at the thought of anything like that happening with my new friend on a fifteen minute ride to Dulwich. He heard me and looked surprised.

"What's funny?"

"Oh nothing... private joke I guess."

He smiled again, showing white, even teeth. Once again he pushed the Spritzer towards me.

"What makes you think I drink those?"

"Intuition. You just look like the type I guess."

"Really? And what type is that?"

"Oh, y'know... I don't like to stereotype people, but you're well dressed, probably well heeled. You live in Dulwich village. That's a real vintage dress you're wearing isn't it?"

"It was my mother's. Bloody nuisance in this wind to be honest."

"Yes, I noticed. I think a few people did..."

I blushed as his gaze wandered to my legs for an instant, guessing that my attempts at modesty hadn't been altogether successful. Not knowing how to respond I picked up the glass and began to drink.

He asked me where I'd been and we talked art for a few minutes. He was certainly charming – no great Adonis and with a sharp, slightly hawkish look about him, but obviously well educated and very confident.

Neither of us asked or volunteered any personal information – no names, no 'so what do you do then' small talk, just easy chatter about art, then photography which seemed to interest him. We had just moved on to movies, drinks finished, when the cab pulled up outside.

As we made our way to the door I wobbled a little and he took my arm gently, steering me through the tables and out into the warm, gusty night. The cab was roomy – a people carrier with plenty of legroom – and we both settled back into the deep leather seat as he instructed the driver.

I stared out the window as we drove up the hill past parks and mansion flats, aware that his thigh was lightly touching mine even though the seat was plenty wide enough.

Sensing him staring at me I turned toward him. He had loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar and the yellow streetlights were casting regular, moving shadows across his face. He was indeed staring at me in the darkness... staring expectantly, a barely visible smile flickering at the corners of his mouth.

And then he leaned forward and just kissed me without warning, surprising me so much I didn't move a muscle.

It was a soft, unhurried gesture, his lips barely touching mine, his eyes open looking for a reaction that didn't come. He broke off, his smooth face still intimately close and smiling at my wide-eyed confusion. With a million thoughts running through my head I somehow chose to worry about the driver of all things and glanced sideways to find him intent on the road.

It seemed Ben took this to mean I was checking our privacy and planning to continue the kiss. A large hand suddenly cupped my chin, turning my face back to his gaze. And this time I acted on sheer impulse, leaning into him and crushing my mouth against his, finding and engaging his tongue as its tip tentatively explored my lips.

I have to say the thrill of being kissed by another man was intense. And the fact that he was such a total stranger made it even more so. There was no game being played, no wondering if this was the 'start of something', no obligations incurred or expectations raised. This was here and now and happening second by second.

The hand on my chin dropped to my knee then slid firmly to my thigh, its long fingers gripping, searching. I moaned softly, aware that I was already dampening the scarcely present strip of thong that covered my pussy. His touch found the bump of a suspender strap and began to trace its outline. It was his turn to moan.

Ben broke off the kiss again, my tongue still wetly reaching for his, and looked at me intently, suddenly serious. With slow deliberation he found the hem of my dress and stealthily slipped his hand under the thin fabric, moving in one confident motion into the space between my thigh and the seat, his body leaning across to hide his action from the driver's mirror.

Almost involuntarily – almost – I raised my leg, allowing his dry fingers to creep upwards over the nylon and come to rest on the short expanse of bare skin between my stocking and... oh but it didn't stop there.

I was breathing fast now, watching his eyes as a fingertip found my pussy lips and the humid warmth he was creating there. As our mouths locked again I trembled to feel him enter me, stirring my wetness gently, sliding deeper and deeper.

I briefly thought of Tony's thick, workmanlike fingers in comparison to this young man's thin, graceful hand and as if reading my thoughts his kiss became more intense. His tongue darted more urgently into my mouth and as my thighs parted another fraction he slipped a second finger into me, my readiness now more than evident.