Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt 11

XI

The "M" word

I was now late for work, of course. Immediately I arrived I hurried to the gents for the wank of which my conversation with Alicia had left me sorely in need. As I made my way to my office a colleague mentioned that Fran had been looking for me. "Connie, too," someone added.

I got to my desk and switched on the computer. Of course there was a vast stack of emails. I opened first the one from Brian about the board report. In it he congratulated Fran and me on a job thoroughly well done, so that was one thing off my mind. I continued to check emails in the knowledge that someone would be knocking on my door any moment. I wondered who would win the race.

It was Connie. Shutting the door behind her, she hurried into my arms as I stood up to greet her and we enjoyed a long and passionate kiss. Despite her evident pleasure at seeing me, she seemed slightly nervous and edgy so I asked whether something was troubling her. Had the college reported her to the company for her disappearing act on Friday?

"Oh, they don't care," she replied dismissively, "so long as they get their money. Anyway it was my last week. No, James, it's much worse than that. You'll be so upset." She had to pause before she could continue. "It's Tommy," she said.

"What's happened? Has he been bad to you?" I was surprised how protective I suddenly felt.

"No, no, nothing like that," she replied, looking down as if in shame. "Oh, James, I don't know if I can tell you."

I was already late in and I had a feeling this would be a busy day, so I wanted none of this beating about the bush. I remembered my theory that a direct order never fails and said she must tell me, whatever it was.

She complied at once, speaking in a low but clear voice. "When I left you Friday I went home like you told me. I went to bed early saying I had a headache because I wanted to be alone to think of you. I played with myself in bed and imagined I was with you, and when I came it was fantastic. Tommy must have heard me because he appeared at the door in just his shirt and he had a big hard-on. He smiled at me. 'You've found a cure for your headache, then?' he said and got in the bed with me.

"Oh, James, I didn't know what to do. I didn't want him but I'd never refused him before and he kissed me and got on top of me and –" She dropped her eyes again and took a deep breath before continuing. "I couldn't stop thinking of you but that made me feel horny and then he was inside of me and I felt myself responding and –" She broke off and looked at me pleadingly. "Oh, James, the sex was amazing! Not so good as with you," she hastened to add, "not nearly so good, but far better than I'd ever had with Tommy or any guy I'd had before. But James, you must believe me, it was Tommy in bed with me but in my mind it was you I was fucking, it was you!"

I motioned her to keep her voice down (these internal office walls are not the most soundproof). As she went on to tell me that subsequently she and Tommy had been very active (as Betty Rico would have put it) but she had always been thinking of me, I examined my own state of mind to analyse how I took this news. Was I jealous?

I decided that in all conscience I could answer no. I still wanted her, of course, and had office etiquette permitted it I would have spreadeagled her on the desk and taken her there and then. But the news that she had been with Tommy did not upset me; if I was not in a position to use her, I felt, I had no objection if she wanted to take her pleasure elsewhere. So I explained to her that it was all right, what she had done was only natural and I was not angry with her.

She looked relieved but not satisfied. "But James, it's you I want to fuck, not Tommy. The way you made me feel on Friday," she said with a strange smile that managed to be at once wistful and lascivious, "that's what I want. James, when can we fuck?"

I had been wondering about this myself. So far I had not come up with the answer. I thought of taking her to a nearby hotel at lunch or after work but it would not be ideal – some colleague might easily see us – and besides, always a thrifty man, I resented the amount I should have to pay for an hour or two's use of the room. I was also put off by the knowing looks I should get from hotel staff as this fat bald middle-aged man turned up with a sexy black girl half his age.

So I told Connie I was working on it and she would have to be patient. I also took the opportunity to give her a talking-to about getting to work punctually and pulling her weight in the office. Then I kissed her warmly and sent her on her way.

Scarcely was she out of my office before there was a knock and Fran marched in without waiting for permission. I knew FUCK had affected her but was unsure how much. I had thought she might be flustered and confused but not a bit of it. With an air of resolution about her, albeit tinged with nervousness, she took a chair and looked me straight in the eye. "James, we must talk."

"First of all," I said, "let me thank you for the report."

"Never mind about the report," she said brusquely. "I want to talk about us."

I looked over her shoulder to check she had firmly closed the door. Her forceful mood had me on the back foot. "Us?" I queried.

"Yes, us. James, I love you."

I looked at her but could not speak. She seemed nervous and embarrassed but also thoroughly determined. I got the impression she had rehearsed and rehearsed what she was going to say when she saw me and she was going through with it no matter what. I also realised that she was the first FUCK victim (apart from Wendy, of course) to use the "L" word. And then she put the cap on it with the "M" word.

"James, darling, I love you and I want to marry you." Having got this off her chest she let out a relieved breath and looked more relaxed. Her eyes sparkled as she looked at me and waited patiently for a reply.

Appalled and completely at a loss for words, I could think of nothing but the same trick I had pulled on Alicia. I raised my left hand and displayed the wedding band. It did not work so well this time.

"Yes, yes, I know," she said impatiently. "I've thought about that a lot. But what can I do?"

As I gathered my thoughts I remembered that Fran had met Wendy: twice in fact, once at the company's Christmas dinner ("Partners welcome") and once when Wendy had to come up to town for some appointment and looked in at the office. Both times they had chatted in the most amicable way and after the second meeting Wendy had talked to me about possibly inviting her for dinner. "But Fran, think," I said. "You know Wendy. She's a lovely person. Just think about the implications for her – for all of us – of what you're saying."

"I

have

thought about it," she insisted, "and it's a rotten situation. It's so unfair. I've got nothing against Wendy – I like her a lot – but it's her or me."

I needed to stop this before it went any further. "Then it's her," I said firmly.

I expected anger or tears, but instead her mood seemed to soften. "Puir darling James," she said feelingly, her Scottish accent asserting itself, "I knew you'd say that. You're such a guid and lovely man and Wendy's your wife. It's only right and proper that you'd stand by her. And I know this must be terribly sudden for you, darling, but," she went on, the note of determination returning to her voice, "I've had days and days to think about it and I know that you're the loveliest and finest man in the worrld and there can never ever be anyone else for me. I want to be your wife."

"Fran," I replied despairingly, "you know I've been married to Wendy for twenty years."

"Exactly," she replied. "So now it's my turrn." (Even in my worry and confusion I found a moment to wonder how on earrth Scots manage to rroll their "R"s like that.)

I tried appealing to her sense of right and wrong. "Fran, you've always been such a good and decent person. I can't believe you're threatening to break up a happy marriage."

She did have the shame to look a little guilty. "Oh, I know everyone will say I'm the scarlet woman," she admitted, holding up a handful of that glorious red hair and smiling sadly at her own rueful joke, "and they'll all be sorry for Wendy. And they'll be right. She doesn't deserve it; it's not her fault. But I didn't mean to fall in love; I always liked you and respected you but I never saw it coming and I don't see what I could have done about it. So you can't say it's my fault either. It's no one's fault, except," and her earnestness relaxed for a moment into a dazzling smile, "maybe yours for being so attractive, darling. It's just bad luck on everyone, but there it is."

"Fran, please don't call me 'darling'. You must know I like you too," I assured her (and under the desk my swelling cock was telling me that it shared the sentiment), "and I'm deeply flattered, really I am, but this is wrong. You can't make me leave my wife."

"Oh, I know I can't," she said unexpectedly. "It's up to you. You're loyal to Wendy because you're such a wonderful man, it's why I love you. But James,

darling

," she continued, defiantly using the forbidden endearment and looking me straight in the eye in dead earnest, "I can make you happier than Wendy can and I'm telling you now, I'm going to do everything I can to make you mine. That's

my

decision. What you do about it, stay with her or come with me, that's

yuir

decision."

She stood up. "Well, that's it," she said as if concluding a formal business discussion. "I thought I ought to let you know how things stand." And with that she marched out again.

She left me staring after her. I was trying desperately to think. It was idle to pretend that the conversation had gone as I had envisaged it; instead, she had brought a script I knew nothing about and we had followed it throughout. My cock was telling me to get after her and hang the consequences, while part of my mind wondered how she would react if I suggested an affair.

I took hold of myself: "Fran is sacred," I muttered. I had to find some way of releasing her from my spell but I was too randy to think straight. As I headed to the gents for relief I noticed Connie busying herself with some paperwork, looking for all the world a contented and conscientious employee. The sight of her reminded me how much more satisfying a real woman would be than yet another mechanical wank and for a moment I thought again of taking her to an hotel.

Then it suddenly struck me that for about the same money an alternative option was available, one offering none of the dangers of sneaking off to hotels. I changed course from the gents and headed for the exit, signing out for a two-hour lunch. (This would attract no attention; I often lunched with clients.)

I want straight to the tube and fifteen minutes found me in the West End, where I was reasonably safe from chance meetings with colleagues or business associates. I was looking in telephone boxes for the prostitutes' calling-cards that have become such a striking feature of London life in recent times. Over the years I had often glanced idly at these, as you do, and had found some of them quite tempting. In the past a combination of apprehension, thrift, and husbandly loyalty had always enabled me to resist them, but today I was in earnest.

Maybe Connie was still on my mind for it was a black girl that caught my eye. Her card proclaimed 'genuine photo', an oft-made claim I had always been a bit cynical about. The card, unlike some of the others, showed the girl's face clearly, with its delightfully cheeky come-to-bed grin. She looked in her mid-twenties and, without being fat, had plenty of those curves in the right places. With trembling hands I dialled the number.

A rich chocolaty seductive voice answered and directed me to a nearby basement flat. I found it easily and, feeling thoroughly frightened, in fact fully expecting some toughs to jump out and mug me, I rang the bell. The door was opened by a skinny and unattractive black woman of about forty. She must have seen my face fall because she said, in the same sexy voice I had heard over the phone, "I'm the maid. Are you Jim?" It took me a second to remember that I had given my name in a form that I never otherwise used, mainly because Wendy so detested it. "Come in, dearie. The girl will be out in a sec. She's just getting ready. Gina!" she called.

A door behind her opened and there emerged the original of the photograph, wearing a very see-through red baby-doll and that sexy grin – and nothing else. She was possibly a year or two older than I had judged from the photograph, maybe twenty-seven, but that did not alter the fact that she was highly fuckable.

Her face lit up at seeing me; anyone would think we had been friends for years. "Hi, Jim honey," she said brightly; adding, "I love men with ties." She grabbed mine and thereby led me to a slightly down-at-heel bedroom, where she sat me down on the double bed. "Right, hun, what'll it be?" she asked, rattling off a list of services and prices. To be honest I did not know what half of them signified – "reverse oral"? "french"? – but I knew that what I was there for was called "full service" so I paid her for that, plus a tip for the maid, and she disappeared with the money. I sat on the bed, feeling out of my depth and wondering whether this was the point at which I got mugged.

She returned after a moment or two and seemed surprised that I was still dressed. Apologising for what was obviously a social gaffe, I started to disrobe and she gave me an acute look and said, "Is it your first time, hun? Paying for it, I mean?"

I admitted it and she came over all maternal. "Don't worry, honey, you'll be fine. Gina will look after you." But at this point I freed my raging cock from my clothing and she drew in her breath, staring as it stood forth in its proud eminence. "Oh, my!" she said eventually. "You are a big boy, aren't you hun?"

"I bet you say that to all the guys," I replied.

She regained her professional poise: "Yes, hun, that's right," she smiled; adding, "I don't usually mean it, though."

Naked now, we embraced on the bed and I kissed her buxom black curves. I eventually tore myself away from her beautifully ample breasts, and worked up to her neck (she giggled gratifyingly as I hit a ticklish spot). But when I went to kiss her lips she turned her head away and wagged a finger playfully but firmly in my face. "Not on the lips, hun." This was a big and unexpected disappointment, but I obediently made my way to other parts of the body where those ripe lips would not tempt me.

I was hugely randy and desperate to get inside her, but it was, I thought, the only chance I was ever going to get to explore her very comely body, so I held off as long as I could. It suddenly struck me that her manner was changing. Up to this point, she had been perfectly pleasant and friendly but also very much in control. But now she was writhing in my arms as I kissed her inner thighs and her breathing was becoming irregular. She gasped out, "I need you … oh Jim, I need you inside me now." I assumed this was part of the normal show and determined not to be rushed, but as I made my way back to her breasts she suddenly grabbed me with surprising strength and pulled me toward her and planted her lips passionately against mine. She then groped for my cock, held it firmly, and made an accurate and skilful upward thrust with her hips so that it was forced into her cunt. It was all I could do to maintain the kiss as her body tensed, her back arched up and then everything relaxed as she came.

I could see the unused condom lying on the bedside table where she had left it handy before we began. At some level I realised that we had departed from the usual script and that FUCK was responsible; but my cock's need for release overrode everything else as I thrust in and out. Within moments my pent-up juices surged forth and Gina orgasmed again, far more powerfully this time.

As I climbed off, my passion spent, my brain began to function properly again and I cursed my stupidity in having chosen this way of releasing my sexual tension. For there she lay, just as Connie and Kylie had lain, spunk oozing from her cunt, motionless and glassy-eyed on some far cloud of sexual ecstasy. How would the maid react to this? How could I possibly explain it?

I had to escape. I got dressed quickly and left the bedroom. The maid looked up from her

Mills & Boon

. "All right, dearie? You off now?"

"I'm fine, thanks," I replied, heading for the exit. I think my urgency betrayed me, because she got up and looked round the bedroom door.

"Gina?" she said. "Oh gawd! What have you done to her? You bastard!" she shouted.

I was already out of the front door and halfway up the steps to street level. As I went I heard her still yelling, "Bastard! Bastard!" Mercifully as I hit the street a cab passed by and I hailed it.

As the cab pulled away I sat back appalled. The way I had allowed my raging libido to override my good sense and judgment was vivid proof of the wise observation of Robin Williams: "God gave man a brain and a penis, but unfortunately not enough blood to operate them both at once." It was utter folly to have acted on the passing whim to visit a prostitute when a moment's forethought would have warned me what might happen. I was aware, of course, that I had done Gina no lasting harm, but the maid was hardly to know. I thanked my stars that she had not reached the street in time to take the number of the cab, but I took it as a warning to be careful. It was in a sombre mood that I returned to the office to the unwelcome news that Brian had called a managers' meeting.

He was apt to do this from time to time at very short notice, I suspected more to prove to himself that he was the boss than for any practical benefit. As usual, we discussed not much at some considerable length; by the time we finished I was feeling that familiar urge again, but this time I had the sense to relieve it in the gents.

During the dull parts of the meeting (i.e., the whole of it) I had had time to think things over. I was deeply concerned by the effect I had had on Fran, and I had no idea what she planned to do to get me away from Wendy so she could marry me. Maybe – frightening thought – she had already begun. Somehow, for everyone's sake – hers, mine, Wendy's – I had to find a way to break her fascination with me. I could think of one thing only that might work. Maybe if I came clean, if I admitted frankly what I had done to her, then just maybe she would find within herself the strength to break free. It was a desperate gamble, but I could see no choice.