'You fucked my husband.'
Petite, dark hair, wide brown eyes, tired skin. She was probably a big hit at high school, but now she was just another mummy who's no longer yummy, two kids, an SUV, saggy tits and an even softer waistline.
I don't even know the woman, but that doesn't make her accusation wrong. Far from it.
'Was it his birthday?'
There was a time when I used to make them wait till their birthday, but in a large office like ours you'd be amazed how many guys share the same birthday. And then there'd be entire weeks without a single one. Five days without a shag seems like a lifetime when you're used to getting it daily. Hubby doesn't count, obviously.
I'm talking about the thrill you get from a quickie behind the filing cabinets. And yes I have done that. Not often, but more than once. Usually it was the stationery cupboard. Dark corners, secluded part of the building, not as risky as it sounds. You can hear footsteps when you've still got 15 seconds to spare. Plenty of time to disengage, dress, and be at separate ends of the shelving.
Unless you don't mind being caught. Or found out. Like now. Being confronted by angry wives goes with the territory. She wasn't the first and doubtless not the last either. But she was getting very angry very quickly.
'I don't bloody know if it was his birthday. What difference does that make?'
'I like to think there's at least a little difference between a special present and a quick fuck. Don't you?
Of course there isn't really. Not for me anyway. A fuck's a fuck whether it's your birthday or not. Things that make the difference are cock size, of course, circumstances, and sudden uncontrollable spunking. I love that. Premature ejaculation is the best compliment you can give me. I'm so arousing and exciting I make guys cum in their pants. Or mine. Or up my skirt and all over my thighs, all over my bum if I've bent over for them. I love making cocks cum, love all that thick creamy hot spunk spurting out of them. In me is good, but anywhere will do.
And anywhere will do for a fuck. As in right here, right now, with everyone looking. Yes, I have. But not here in this bar. Other bars, yes. It's definitely worth the risk. Outside, up against the wall, it's rude, dirty sex, a million times better than vanilla missionary at home in bed. But inside, up against the wall, where people around me can see what I'm doing it's so horny I'm almost premature myself. And if I can see my hubby, or there's a chance he might see me, then I cum as quick as they do.
No idea why.
People ask, obviously, and I don't have an answer.
We all know men have fetishes. Feet, lingerie, blondes, big tits. Whatever. They say only men are actual fetishists. But all women have an underwear fetish, if you want my opinion. It's why we spend so much money on the stuff. And we're all exhibitionists at heart. If we buy that flimsy pair of knickers and wear them, we want someone to see how good we look in them. So we make sure someone does.
Apart from that, some women like to be spanked, or tied up, and some like to be shared. Some of us do our own sharing. That's me, that's my thing. Sex is dull and boring without the extra lift I get from cheating.
I don't really care who it is. Which is why I don't take too much notice of them. So I definitely don't remember them. Including this woman's husband.
Keep smiling, admit nothing, deny nothing, and she'll go away. They always do. There's nothing to be gained if you aren't wounding your enemy with your words, and there's nothing she or any other wife can say that will prick my conscience or make me feel bad about myself or my actions.
Deeds. They always call them deeds when they're yelling accusations. Filthy deeds. I like them. The filthier the better. As long as it's with someone other than dear old hubby.
He has his moments of course. I keep him regularly supplied with oats, so he's always happy and content. And blissfully unaware. He knows I only leave the bedroom light on for his benefit. He understands that I prefer it in the dark. Naturally modest, that's what I am. Bit of missionary, bit of doggie and I can suck for as long as he wants me to, though it's never more than a few minutes.
I let him buy all my lingerie. He thinks it's all for his benefit of course, but though it sometimes inspires him a little, it really drives his friends insane with lust.
'I always knew you'd undress better than you dress,' one of them said. Can't remember which. It was a long time ago. I ran out of his friends ages ago. Never go back, that's my rule, never do anyone twice. So I moved on to my work colleagues, his colleagues, and finally random strangers in bars and nightclubs.
I sort of preferred people we both knew. It's far more shocking to find your friend's wife is gagging for a fuck, and of course very bad behaviour to fuck hubby's best mate. So bad I used to get wet all day long, sat in a puddle at my desk just thinking about it. That's when I started on workmates, obviously. They were surprised at first, shocked even, when I started feeling them up under the table at lunch or whatever.
But they soon got the idea.
I still only let them have it once. Favouritism is an issue, but emotions are a complication.
No affairs equals less bother. Plus there's no evidence. We do the deed and seconds later I pull my skirt down and that's it -- there's no way to prove it ever happened. Most of all there are no whispery phone calls, no unexplained texts or emails -- and no paper trail. Nothing for hubby to find and follow, trace the progress of a liaison, count the times I've fucked his best mate, or workmate, or whoever most wives end up in a relationship with.
Who needs another one of those? Not me. Just lots of lovely hard cocks, thank you. lots of eager men. Like the one belonging to Mrs Average here, still speaking in a quiet voice, but it's that shouty whisper other people notice.
'Remind me,' I suggested. That always slows them down a bit.
'He works here,' she snapped, and I knew at once who she meant. Tall, dark, a bit foreign-looking. I thought he'd be Italian, but by the time he'd got me bent over a crate of empties out the back I discovered I'd got six inches of Essex cock up inside me. Did the job well enough though.
