The Best Mistae She Ever Made

Fucking dopehead. You left your laptop on the kitchen table, and there, open and ready for all to see, your sleezy 'Memoirs of a Rock Star.'

What sicko records, in gooey detail, all their infidelities? Then 'accidentally' leaves them for their wife to find?

I'll tell you who. The kind of man-child who still defines himself by his sexual 'prowess'. The kind of passive-aggressive gaslighter who buys me, his wife, a dildo and sex-therapy sessions on our son's 1st birthday. Who winks at pretty girls over my head, and then blames me for his lechery... because I don't "milk" him enough! The kind of man who, interviewed on TV, describes me as having: "Succulent lips... at both ends." And, after the show, finds himself--and I quote: 'Under a restaurant table, sucking the interviewer's love-bud like a greedy child on a nipple.'

'A greedy child on a nipple' I can believe from you -- a weirdo fucking baby — but 'love-bud'?

The only surprising thing about this fresh humiliation is that you've bullied (sorry, 'seduced') so many groupies into sixty-nining you. While I'm home with the kids.

And by the way, how come you get to boast about my 'succulent lips' to the public, like I'm some prized possession, yet when I suck your cock you complain my 'massive mouth' makes you feel small?!

Thing is, I've buried my doubts for the sake of our family, and because I loved you. And in a fucked-up, bruised kind of way I still do. I've put so much work into keeping us together, it's hard to give up on the dream of us.

But I now know for a fact what you get up to on tour. For all your skype-the-kids-at-bedtime pretensions, for all your: "This one's for my wife! The real hero!" shout-outs. It's all bollocks. Because according to you: 'My favourite thing in life, bar none, is the saucer eyes, then hungry pout, of a fan presented with her idol's naked, rigid manhood.'

You know you used that phrase four times?

Tosser.

All those dirty little secrets... You can't be serious about publishing them, can you? Have you not heard of #MeToo? No, you write them for yourself, to get off, and you wanted me to find them. You wanted me to read them and -- like one of your star-struck harlots -- think, "Oooh, yes... now that does it for me... my idol's rigid manhood... hmm let's get dirty!"

Pathetic.

No. I'm the pathetic one for putting up with you for so long.

Well, let me type my little story for you, right here as your last chapter. A story I'd buried and promised never to repeat. It seemed like the worst mistake I ever made, but now I realise it was the best.

It's about that picture I hung in our bedroom, the one of the whole family in the church, at your Goddaughter's wedding in the summer. Go look at it now. It will be the last time you'll be able to.

See how I'm standing? In front of your colossal cousin, Bill? See how I'm slightly stooped, holding one of the kids to face the camera? Remember that pose.

Bill and I have secretly had the hots for each other since the day you introduced us all those years ago. Actually, six years, eight months, two weeks, 1 day, five hours, 3 minutes, and 6 seconds, 7 seconds, 8 seconds...

And every awkward, shaky moment in his presence I just... tingle. But we've behaved. We've behaved like responsible adults. He might be single, but I'm a mum. And a wife. Or I was.

I lost count of the number of times he's been here for us, taking us wherever we want like our personal chauffeur. Fixing the boiler, building bikes for the kids. You know they call him 'Big Daddy'?

What's that other line of yours? 'A girl knows in her sex when a man desires her.' Fucksake. Well, in this case, you can consider yourself proved right. Pussy-man. I know it in my love-bud. Bill desires me.

And I fantasise about that great big sexy bastard all the time. Just the smell of his cologne can get me wet. It's shameful, I know, but that's why I gave you that same cologne for your birthday. Imagine all those times you thought I was dripping for you. Nope. That was for Bill. I shut my eyes and took intoxicating breaths of the man I would never have...

Except for that one time. In church.

You were giving your Goddaughter away in place of her actual dad, who'd made that shabby deal with the tabloids, remember? Bill and I were ushers and had nowhere to sit once the church was full, so we went up onto this mezzanine. We were the only ones up there, sat above and behind everyone. No-one could see us, except maybe the priest, and he was busy.

We hadn't eaten at the wedding breakfast. I'd caught you stroking the knee of a hysterically squirming bridesmaid. She'd politely declined to prove to you -- on demand -- that she wasn't 'commando' and you were threatening to check for yourself. Bill caught my gaze. He pressed his lips and rolled his eyes as if to apologise for you. Then he grabbed two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and shoved one in my hand. We glugged.

So with only booze in our stomachs Bill and I were giggly and jittery. Bill looked edible in a neat, light suit that stretched too tightly over his arms, and I felt a little exposed in my summer dress; the silky thing with big flowers on it. Naturally, you'd told me it looked better without underwear, and I believed you, mostly, so dumped my bra and stockings. Though when I wouldn't go knickerless, you slammed the door on me, remember? Hence why you hassled the bridesmaid in front of me, I guess, in some fucked-up kind of blame game.

You and the bride arrived, and you sashayed up the aisle, wafting your brightly feathered cavalier hat at her as if you weren't stealing her limelight. Bill and I watched from our heaven, and goosebumps prickled all over my skin. Thing is, I was stood too close to this man to be so lightly dressed. I wrapped my arms around myself. Tugged at a hem that I wished was below the knee. My body was on tenterhooks, straining out its little feelers into his aura. And you know what? He noticed!

He struggled off his jacket and draped it over my shoulders. Bad idea. The light graze of the fabric sprang my nipples to bullets. They were so unavoidably pronounced that he faltered and raised his eyebrows, but politely blinked away. I breathed his scent, while my pores gulped at his lingering warmth, and I swayed woozily. I crossed one foot over the other and locked my knees together while the priest began: "We are gathered here today..." and I drifted into a lascivious dream. But then we were asked to sit, and Bill's leg rested against mine. My hips warmed in the most furtive of all blushes, and I wished I had gone knickerless after all. For him.

He's got the sexiest hands, hasn't he? Big palms and thick wrists. Thick fingers. I say this because, catching us both by surprise I think, he put his hand on my knee.

My heart stopped. It was like some sleek, wild wolf-cub had settled on my lap and I couldn't move in case I startled it and ruined the moment. Bill's great paw was warm leather against my skin, and it wrapped half round my leg. His ruddy hairiness and veins looked primitive against me. Perhaps he was being playful, mocking your fake-fun pass at the bridesmaid. But it asked an important question, nonetheless. Did I want him?

And the question wasn't going anywhere. His hand stayed put. Bill left me to answer. No pressure. He didn't even look away from the altar, his expression fixed. He wears stoic well, your cousin. A gentleman hulk.

My answer to his bold move? I relaxed for the first time in years. I sighed right from my belly, from the interior tips of my fingers and toes, from the roots of my hair. I sighed from my fucking love-bud. And that long trembled breath carried out all the doubt and worry you ever caused me. Because right then, I knew Bill wanted me. And there was nothing I wanted more than that. And that's how I betrayed our marriage. Not, like you might, with a creepy invitation to, "sit on the lap of a legend". I betrayed you by finally letting out the breath I'd held since the day you married me.

My legs sagged open. And Bill cleared his throat.

He gulped.

Then he put his hand up my skirt.

Fuck. When his work-hardened fingers hit the secret, tender skin of my inner thigh, I had to bite my lips to stifle a whimper. With a sensation of blossoming, I opened wider for him, dizzy with what we were doing amongst the chanting and candles and incense. He stroked slowly but definitely upwards and it was electric. Just this bold touch was better than any fuck I've had with you. Better than our first time. Better than our fucking honeymoon.

I slid my hips to the edge of the pew, unable to stop myself rocking to his touch. His fingers pressed against my knickers and my stomach flip-flopped. He gulped a moan, I guess I was pretty damp down there. Then I groaned too, as he curled over my entire gusset and squeezed.

Drunk on horn, I reached across his lap and squashed my palm flat onto his crotch. Wow. Your cousin is hung. Really hung. And he was breathtakingly, trouser-burstingly, hard. He flexed against me and it was all I could do to not straddle him cowgirl there and then. Ride him into the sunset.

I rolled against the rhythmic, urging squeeze of his fingers, and toyed with pulling my gusset aside. I waited, hoping he would do it for me, when according to some droned cue that we'd missed, everyone stood up. We leapt to our feet.

Bill had to keep his prayer book in front of the delicious tent in his trousers while I had to lean on the rail, my knees were so trembly. I flipped the pages of my hymn book, antsy fingers shaking with the need to test his hardness again, while my clit fizzed for the return of his hand. But instead we sung a hymn. At least Bill spent the whole time squeezing my bum and making my voice wobble for our amusement.

I recalled the time you got the Glastonbury crowd to slow-clap me onto the pyramid stage with you. It was my birthday and you said you wanted to serenade me. So I stood up there in front of a hundred thousand baying fans and a live TV audience of millions while you launched into a bawdy, heavy-metal cover version of that sixties song, 'My Boy Lollipop.' But you'd changed the lyrics to, 'My Bird's Bubble-Butt.' You pranced around me grabbing my arse, getting the cameras to focus on it, begging me to "jiggle or something", while I attempted to curl into myself until I vanished.

However, in the church that day, right there behind you, for Bill? I jiggled.

Then the mysterious catholic service had us on our knees, and I was minxy with horniness by this point. Dear husband, as we knelt, I quickly slipped off my panties and shoved them in the pocket of his jacket. Remember the big echoey groan? The one that had the kids giggling? That was Bill, then.

He had his hand back up my skirt in a blink, this time behind me, and the feel of his calloused palm on my bare arse shivered me inside-out. I honestly nearly came there and then. I knelt with my knees apart to encourage him underneath and oh, at fucking last... He cupped me, stirred me slipperily and rumbled a growl. He really knows his way around a cunt, doesn't he? (Well he got round you ha ha). His fingers dug with a sexy will of their own, expertly tickling my clit while his thumb probed my slot. I rocked back at his busy hand... and clenched at his thumb for more... deeper... faster...

Oh and I came like a bastard.

You know that bit in the service, when the little bells ring and you drop your head? Perfect timing. I panted and swore into my prayer book. Was this wrong? Evil, even? Surely, a benevolent God would relish Their dearly beloved seizing the day!

Anyway once I stopped grinding on his hand Bill slid out, leaving a kind of hollow yearning behind him. He took my underwear from his pocket and wiped his glossy fingers dry. And in my droopy bliss I could hardly even lift my head, let alone object when he folded my panties and put them in his trouser pocket.

So for the rest of the service I sat, stood and knelt, wobbly and knickerless. My cheeks and neck blazed, and I was even wetter than before; an illicit chilliness that trickled almost down to my knees. You're my husband, so you know, right? How my first orgasm just gets me going? Oh no, I forgot. You always cum when I cum and then fall asleep. Fucking annoying that. Not "romantic" as you like to think.

So I might have been singing "Alleluia!" but my focus was on Bill straining in his trousers. He'd need to fuck, and I needed cock (not a sentence I ever thought I'd type out loud), but what could we do? Any chance I got I gave that stout bulge a pat or a squeeze or a rub. But I don't know who this turned on more, him or me. It was definitely driving me nuts. In fact in my delirium I pretended to drop my prayer book and while I was reaching down 'rested' my cheek on his lap (the worst, hardest, proddiest pillow ever!) That didn't help at all. I decided, fuck it, I gotta suck it!

I had his belt half undone, when the service finished.

We were invited to the front for a photograph. I returned his jacket and I've never seen a man move more gingerly. It was like he had an unexploded bomb between his legs! The fact that I'd got him into this state made me want to tear off my clothes and run around howling, "I AM WOMAN! WORSHIP ME!"

He made me walk in front of him all the way to the altar and we shuffled along trying not to be noticed. Like we'd come to the wrong church; Bill supernaturally erect, me mythically dribbly. A couple of gate-crashing fertility gods. You were fussing around being all bloody starry for the paparazzi and organising everyone into rows. I took my place, Bill stood behind me. Then just as the picture was taken, I pretended to straighten this little kid in front of me and pushed my rear tight to Bill's crotch. I nestled his pent-up member between my knickerless buttocks! He flexed at me and turned a groan into a cough. Look at his expression in the picture. Classic isn't it? See how I'm blushing?

Enjoy.

But that's not all. You see it got much, much better. For us I mean. Because that picture? That was just the start. As we moved next door to the church hall for snacks it was hilarious how Bill managed to always find something to stand behind: A bunch of flowers, a pile of pastries. A champagne bucket. You!

But it wasn't Bill we needed to worry about. While congratulating the happy couple somebody whispered to me, "Oh Darling, I think you may have sat in something." Bride, Groom and both sets of parents checked behind me and grimaced... and I realised the "something" was my own wetness, soaked through my skirt.

Hardly able to lift my head for primal shame, and trying to avoid Bill's eyes which glittered with hilarity, I made my apologies and went off to use the wheelchair accessible loo. They said there was a hand-dryer in there and I wouldn't be bothered by anyone.

So I locked myself in this huge church toilet. It seemed brand new, all sparkling porcelain, polished flagstones and fragrant flowers. A tiny church window beamed rays of churchy sunlight like God's own blessing. I pulled off my dress, cursing Bill for still having my knickers. Now I was left naked but for my glittery sandals. I looked mad in the mirror, rudely exposed in such a holy convenience, waving my dress under the blower.

I wanted to blub. Oh no, not because of you, asshole. At the fun Bill and I were having. I was so consumed by giddy fever that every time I caught my face in the mirror I giggled. And you, well, as usual you were just... not there.

Then there was this metallic fiddling noise at the door, and it swung open! Bill! He quickly slipped into the toilet and re-locked the door. Dumbfounded, I clutched the dress to my front. How did he do that?

"You never had your kids lock themselves in the loo?" He waved a coin at me.

Apparently, you can unbolt certain toilet doors from the outside with a penny. In emergencies. And this was quite an emergency! He stood there reclined against the door like a great smirking lion, gawping at the mirror behind me while some other hungry creature struggled to be free of his trousers. I looked over my shoulder to check what had caught his attention. Of course. The reflection of my entirely naked rear.

Suddenly I felt like a trapped gazelle. In a good way.

So I gave up trying to hide myself. I carefully folded my dress while Bill's scrutiny scampered all over me and my heart thumped so hard my tits quivered. You know his eyes lick me better than your actual tongue? Slowly, enjoying every hungry second of his attention, I laid my dress over this antique chair next to the sink.

I turned to face him, and trying to be nonchalant, pirouetted and proclaimed, "Ta-da!" but my mouth was too papery and it came out all croaky. I'd waxed for you; did you know that? All smooth and plump and pink. I'd tried to show it off to you in the hotel bed that morning, surprise you with my florid detail. But you were grumpy, remember, because I sucked you awake as a little teaser to my display, but wouldn't let you cum in my mouth? Rather killed the mood. So I'm afraid I surprised Bill with my plump and florid detail instead.

I think he liked it, but to be honest I didn't really notice because I suddenly leapt at his trousers.

I set his cock free in a speeding heartbeat, unzipping his fly and scooping it all out through his boxers-flap, balls and all. What a beauty; lacily veined, thick and hot, and hard as fuckity-fuck. The tip glistened already and made my mouth water, I couldn't stop playing with it. Now I had it in my hands I never wanted to let it go.

"Thanks, but I'm up here." Bill said and tilted my chin up to kiss me. He tasted even better than he smelled. I had to stand on tip-toes to kiss him, he's much taller than you, isn't he? Generally bigger all round I suppose.

He wrapped me in muscle-stuffed tailoring, rough and hard against my skin like a towering sack of bowling balls. There wasn't a soft inch on him, not a millimetre that I couldn't have humped to orgasm. Instead I grabbed his arse and ground my belly at his exposed member. I sucked his tongue and tried not to scream like one of your fans.

You know what he did then? I know what you'd do, you'd drop to your knees and French kiss my 'succulent lips'. You love it don't you? You're so proud of your tongue. You think your cunny skills make you quite a catch. Lying on the floor, looking up between my legs for your "worm's eye view" before begging me to squat on your face. Or on your knees all doe-eyed and submissive. Shit I have to fantasise so hard (about Bill) when you go down on me. But at least I cum, then, not like your feeble ten-thrusts-and-its-over fucking!

So this is what happened next. Bill fucked me, that's what. He just spun me round, pushed me against the mirror and with effortless control nudged his big blunt brute into my slot. I braced my legs wide and tipped my hips up. He dipped his cockhead inside me once, as if trying me on for size. I gasped, caught my breath and he withdrew but immediately returned, impaling me in one fluid stroke, exquisitely gentle but assertive. I felt he knew he'd stretch my cunt wider than I'm used to. In fact he filled me so profoundly he plunged my breath out. And I'm so used to having to try to climax quickly with you, and was so overexcited, that I immediately shuddered and came on his cock, grunting and cackling like a witch.

He didn't break his stride, just rammed on. A fucking juggernaut. He said nothing — none of this "You love it you dirty cow!" bullshit. He just fucked. I shoved back at him, slap-slap-slapping my 'bubble-butt' against his hips, greedy for another orgasm, greedy for his cum.

With you, of course, I usually screw my eyes shut, but I wanted to watch this magnificent fucker. In the mirror he looked grimly serious, head stooped, shining, a line of concentration etched across his square brow. His big hands gripped my hips, working me up and down his shaft but never too deep.