Another Bathtime Fantasy...

My husband is away in Singapore this week. I went to meet an old friend for a drink but she bailed on me. I had a nice drink with a married man instead at a quiet table. I let him kiss me and stroke my knee but that was it.

Later, in my bath, I masturbated myself to an intense orgasm imagining what might have happened if I'd let him go further... I hope you enjoy it my lovely fans. Think of me all alone and naked and vulnerable in my house in Surrey this week as you read this. I hope it makes you hard (or wet).

Sara

x

It was supposedly Dr. Johnson who said every man's secret desire is to be a soldier and every woman's is to be a whore. Knowing not very much about Dr. Johnson I'm unable to tell whether his comment about women was gleaned from conversations with many in his acquaintance but I can certainly say that as far as I'm concerned he was onto something.

It's not as simple as saying that every woman wants to be a whore, of course. Prostitution is dangerous, unpredictable and the last resort of many women on the edge of desperation. But for a comfortably off middle class housewife like me it has a certain draw. The power that women have over men is almost entirely sexual - figuratively, but nonetheless powerfully, represented in the metaphor of the vagina taking in the hard viral male member and then disgorging it limp, placid and spent. I've always been drawn to that image of my own power, conscious as I am that I am considered extremely attractive and also intelligent, but without a career of my own (as yet) to show for it. To be a whore, therefore, is an extension of the female power game. Only a fool would ever connect it with money.

I'm Veronique. My mother was French and my father is British. My mother died when I was twelve, and my father never remarried, so I became very much the maternal figure to my two younger brothers, Jonathan and Will. I went to university and came away from four years at Cambridge with a Masters degree in mathematics and no earthly idea what I wanted to do with it. By then I'd discovered my sexual power, first losing my virginity at the high school prom (not with my date but with a friend of his in the car park), and then a string of lovers at college culminating in the senior lecturer in modern European drama. By the time I married Clive at the tender age of 23 (he was a high financier ten years older than me and an advisor to the Cameron government at the time we met - though since Brexit that's all disappeared as has Cameron, of course), my sexual partners count was in the twenties and I was becoming addicted to the rush you get when someone new takes your fancy. Clive was supposed to put a stop to all that.

And he did. At least for a while. I stayed more or less faithful for the first year. Apart from a quiet experimental snog with a hotel bellboy on our honeymoon in Mustique (just to see if marriage had quieted the fires down - it hadn't), Clive was the only man whose lips touched mine for thirteen months after our wedding. But it appeared not much had changed. He would manage to make me cum once during our love-making and then assume the way was clear for him to charge ahead, pump me full of sperm and then roll over sighing with contentment and go to sleep. I was more used to a bit of sustained performing. Indeed at college I'd prided myself on regular all-nighters, even if that did mean threesomes more often than twosomes. Clive wasn't providing what I needed and I knew it would break his heart to tell him so I kept quiet and made a few discreet purchases at a certain online store that delivers its products in plain brown parcels. Those products I kept in my bedside drawer and used them (on silent mode) to complete things throughout Clive's snores of a night.

The night that changed everything still remains vivid in my memory. It was a Tuesday - 21 April when Clive was away in Singapore at a finance conference. I'd made arrangements to catch up with an old friend, Charlotte, and was at the wine bar waiting for her when she texted me to say her babysitter had rung with flu and she'd been able to find no one else. We could either postpone or I could take a cab to her place and we could have a drink there. I had no car and had arrived in Blackheath that night by train from home in Surrey.

Bloody typical. Cursing Charlotte I decided we'd have to postpone. She lived at least ten miles away (actually, I later checked and it was only seven) and I was damned if I was going to go out of my way when she'd organised the whole catch up date in the first place. I managed to send a controlled text and reached for my glass to finish the Malbec I'd ordered.

"Something up, sweetheart?" said a voice to my right.

I looked up. A rather well dressed man of about 40 was standing looking at me. Clean shaven, bright eyed, dark brown hair with a hint of grey at the temples, well groomed and wearing impeccably pressed trousers with expensive Oxford brogues. I summed him up thus far in about a quarter of a second and replied

"Oh, just a friend letting me down. Guess I'll have a different evening to the one I was expecting."

"May I?" he said, motioning to the stool beside me. I nodded and he sat down.

"Two more Malbecs, please Henry," he said to the barman who had walked over. "Large ones."

I looked at him and a soft smile began to play at the corners of his mouth.

"You're wondering how I knew you were drinking Malbec." he said. "I could bullshit you about being a sommelier, or simply having incredible intuition. But the truth is I heard you order about ten minutes ago, and if I hadn't been dealing with a text from my wife that turned out to be a little more complicated than just "How are you doing over there?", I might have come over and joined you much earlier."

He said all this keeping his eyes fixed on mine. They were hazel brown and friendly. I smiled back and said

"Well, if you're buying the next round, I'd love another Malbec. It's a good vintage."

"Henry knows only good wine," he said smiling back at me. "Henry, leave the bottle with us!"

"John." He said to me, extending a hand.

I took it.

"Pleased to meet you, John. I'm Veronique."

"Alors, donc, parle-te français?" He said at this.

"Bien-sûr, John." I replied in what I knew was my sexiest French accent (I was brought up bilingual).

"That's a shame, then," said John. "Because my French is lousy. But tell me the story of your name," he continued. "There presumably is a story?"

Over the Malbec I told him about my mother and why I had a French name and had been brought up bilingual but how since my mother's death I hadn't really spoken much French and was afraid I might lose it through lack of practice.

It turned out this was a subject he knew something about. He reassured me that by the age of twelve most children have embedded mother tongues to the extent they will survive even decades of non-use. He told me about an uncle of his who had escaped Hungary after the 1956 uprising at a similar age. He had not spoken a word of Hungarian until he went back to visit three years after the Berlin Wall came down.

"That was thirty-six years of never speaking a word of Hungarian," he continued. "Yet, it came flooding back within hours of his getting off the train in Budapest and reconnecting with family members who had remained there all through the hard times."

"Fascinating - and inspiring." I said.

And I meant it. We had drained our glasses during his story and I ordered another two from Henry.

"Or we could just take the bottle to a table?" said John, pointing to the bottle that Henry had left.

I paused. John's phone buzzed.

"Your wife again?" I asked.

He checked his watch. "Yes, I expect so. She's in Singapore at a conference. It'll be early morning there and she'll be going for her 6 o' clock swim."

The mention of his wife reassured me somewhat. "Sure," I said. "Let's take the bottle."

He stood up and placed his hand on my waist as he guided me to a table for two in the darkest corner of the bar. A single tea light illuminated the table and the next four nearest tables were in darkness. It was Tuesday. We were almost the only people there. He sat down beside me, his chair touching mine and poured me a large glass before pouring a smaller one for himself.

"To intelligent conversation, and to bilingualism. God bless her and all who sail in her!" he said with mock gravity.

I laughed. We clinked glasses and I took a long sip watching him as he surreptitiously slid his phone off.

"What about you, Veronique?" he asked. "Husband? Kids? Work?"

I placed my glass down on the coaster on the table.

"Yes, I have a husband. Funnily enough, he's in Singapore too. He's in finance. No kids. No career as such. I do a bit of maths coaching at the local school near where I live. I dabble at art and I mountain bike at weekends. That's about it for me."

"Not at all," said John reaching out and taking my hand suddenly.

"You also have great taste in wine, and you have the most fascinating ability to listen to my rambling stories and make intelligent comments in response! There's more to you than meets the eye, I fancy."

I laughed. "Maybe." I noticed he still had hold of my hand and I hadn't withdrawn it.

He looked into my eyes and I looked back. No way was I going to blink first. But there was something hypnotic about him and I found myself raising my glass to my lips again just to put something between our faces.

"When does he get back?" John said softly.

"Not until Friday." I said in almost a whisper. And by then his lips were closing in on mine.

The kiss when it came was long and deep and passionate and longing. His tongue was gentle and playing across my lips and teeth before pushing slowly into my mouth. I felt a rush of blood to the head. That familiar feeling was gripping me and as I felt his hands go behind my head and grip my hair, massaging my scalp, I also felt a flood of warmth in my pussy. My panties were getting moist and I prayed the silk on my skirt was enough to hide it.

His hand went to my knee and then my thigh. I was reminded on the time in the cinema when a complete stranger had put his hand up my skirt and I had been so shocked I did nothing until I realised I was turned on by it and had let him stroke my pussy through my panties until I came. It was only when the lights came on that I realised he was fifty if he was a day - and was at the film with his own wife and children. But that had done nothing to lessen the power of that memory to fuel many a masturbatory fantasy in the intervening years. And here I was in a dark wine bar in southeast London letting a stranger stroke my upper thigh with the full knowledge that he was going to try to go much further and I was going to let him.

We kissed on and on. Our tongues were now pushing up against each other and his fingers had pushed aside the thin fabric of my Hunkemoller panties and were feeling the moistness of my bare pussy. He rubbed a thumb over my wet clit and I moaned softly.

"Not here. Let's go somewhere else." I whispered.

He nodded, withdrew his fingers and stood up. He took a fifty-pound note and placed it on the table next to the bottle. Then he took my hand and led me to the door. He nodded to Henry behind the bar and we stepped out.

The cold air outside made me gasp a little. I hadn't realised how flushed I was. Taking my hand he led me to his car. We got in and exited the car park.

"Left here then right at the lights," I said, suddenly realising that I was directing him to my own home.

We turned and got on the A-road. He stayed in the left-hand lane and I felt his left hand on my thigh again as he stroked me back up to a state of readiness.

"Take your panties off, Veronique." he said. "I want to feel your juices on my fingers."

"Oh god," I moaned.

This was unbearable. I slipped my panties off and parted my thighs for him guiding his fingers to my sweet spot while he drove on. I thought he was going to make me cum there and then but it seemed he just wanted to keep me on the brink.

It took half an hour to get to my house. We drove up the drive and somehow I found the remote control in my bag that opened the gate. We pulled up to the side entrance and clambered out of his car, which I now saw was a Jaguar. I opened the side door. We stepped in.

"I want you, Veronique!" he said with a passion and we kissed again there in the kitchen.

He removed his jacket and let it slide to the floor. I stood by the kitchen table and let him unbutton my blouse and kiss my breasts through my bra before I took that off too and he licked and kissed my rock hard nipples.

Then he took my hand and led me out into the hallway. The stairs stood before us and he motioned to them. "Ready for bed?" he said.

"This way, lover!" I said and guided him up to our bedroom.

We entered the bedroom. I was glad I'd done some tidying up. The flowers in the vase on my dressing table were fresh that morning and the bed was made. Unfortunately, I had forgotten my little friend from Coco de Mer. My golden rabbit vibrator lay clearly visible on my pillow. John saw it and whispered in my ear.

"You won't be needing that tonight, lover. I'm going to fuck you so much you won't know where to turn your pretty little head. It's been my fantasy for years to fuck a young wife in her marital bed while hubby's away. Now I'm going to get my chance. I'm going to penetrate you again and again, and I'm going to fill you with my seed, my little whore. That's what you want, isn't it?"

"Oh god, yes! That's what I want." I moaned.

I had never been this turned on in my life. I felt I could cum just listening to him.

"Say it, you whore! Say it! Say you want to be my slut! Say you want me to fuck your tight little married pussy and fill you full of my baby-making cum!"

"Oh god, yes!!" I cried.

"I want that. I want that sooo much! Fuck me! Fill me with your cum! I want to be unfaithful with you. I want your cock in my tight married pussy. I want it now!!"

I was sitting there in just my blouse, earrings and wedding ring. He positioned me on the edge of the bed and gently pushed me down so that my bare feet were on the ground but my back was on the bed. He parted my legs and dropped his trousers and pants. I lay there in the dark my mind a whirl. So this was it. I was finally going to break my marriage vows and let a stranger I'd known only hours penetrate my pussy and cum inside me in my marital bed while my husband (and my lover's wife) were thousands of miles away. The thought did nothing to increase my guilt but only served to fuel my desire. I felt my orgasm building as waves of anticipatory pleasures racked my body.

I felt something prod me in the pussy lips and I realised it was his cock. The head nestled against my clitoris and rubbed up and down. My frantic fingers found it and guided it into me. The head was already wet. Was that pre cum, or my own juices? I scarcely cared. I just wanted relief from the aching itch I felt to have my pussy filled with cock.

He thrust and the first two or three inches forced their way inside me. I gasped and he stooped down and kissed me. This angle was amazing. His feet were still on the bedroom carpet so that his cock was pushing against my vaginal wall in a way Clive's cock never did. I've long dismissed all that crap men talk about size. It's nothing to do with size. It's about knowing what to do with what you've got. John certainly knew.

As he thrust further inside me I heard him grunt and moan himself. We were losing ourselves to passion. My head was shaking violently from side to side in the way it always does when I lose control. This was incredible. He was now moving into me with long low thrusts, each one taking my breath away and leaving me on the brink of the most explosive orgasm I could ever remember having. It was the most amazingly wicked animalistic sex I had experienced and I was aware I would not be able to last.

When I eventually came it seemed like my whole being was flooding out of me. I spasmed and thrashed around on the bed, moaning and shrieking alternately. Then his back arched and he thrust hard suddenly and violently. I felt his cock go deeper into me and then he was coming - flooding my pussy with his white sticky sperm. I knew it was my most fertile period and neither of us was using protection. I simply didn't care. Right there and then I wasn't thinking of anything other than how much I wanted every drop of his cum inside me.

We lay there bathed in sweat for several minutes catching our breath and kissing passionately. He stayed inside me for another few minute while the last of his sperm oozed from his spent cock. He rolled off me and I snuggled into the crook of his arm. This was a moment I wanted to savour.

"That was amazing, Veronique," he said at last.

"Yes, John." I replied. "It was the best sex I've ever had."

"Me too," he replied.

We kissed and he started to caress my pussy again, lubricating it with the cum from his own cock that was now beginning to find its way out. He scooped up gobbets of it and gently pushed it back inside me. His thumb caressed my clitoris and I started to moan again.

Then he slid a finger into my anus. He lubricated my ass with the cum and juices on his fingers and gently probed inside me. Coaxing me into it, he rolled me onto my tummy and pushed his fingers further inside me.

Only one of my lovers had ever fucked me anally. It was non-consensual and I was drunk at the time. It had been at a college party and someone had filmed the whole thing so that I had been threatened with their posting it on the Internet if I made a fuss. Fortunately, that bastard quickly found he had much bigger problems than a potential action against him from me. He was sent down from university for a drugs incident, and I never heard from him again. A week or two after he went away, a male friend gave me a digital camera that had the compromising footage on it. He also gave me the IU43 code that showed the film had never been viewed, played or downloaded, so I was safe. But I had never let anyone touch my ass since then.

But now, here I was finding the probing fingers inside my ass very pleasant indeed. The angle I was lying at put my face within range of John's cock, so I shifted over and took him in my mouth. I sucked and licked and soon felt him growing hard again. I started to rub his shaft with my own fingers but he shook his head and moved away. Next I felt him moving onto my back and positioning his cock at the entrance to my now very wet ass. He spat onto his hands and lubricated his now very stiff cock with the spit. Then he pushed it into my ass.

It hurt. I won't lie. The first two or three inches were not pleasant, but then it seemed to glide in deeper and more smoothly. I felt him lift my head by my hair and scrunch and handful of hair in his hands. He tightened his grip and it actually started to hurt a little but he didn't let up. His thrusting grew more powerful and I felt him go deeper inside me and pull my hair till it made me gasp.

Then he was coming again. Less volume, obviously, but not less gutteral. He was gasping and moaning my name as his cock jetted yet more cum into me. Then he suddenly pulled out and dragged me to my feet. He pushed me roughly towards our en suite and ran the shower.

We were both bathed in sweat and other body fluids, and the shower was welcome. But afterwards as we slid back in bed together and slept together that night I couldn't help wondering how on earth I was ever going to make do with Clive's vanilla sex after this.

The answer was surprisingly easy to come up with. But that, dear reader, is for another story.