My husband and I do not have a wonderful sex life. While I like him because he is kind and considerate, and relatively well off - he takes care of me financially - he is not very good in the sack. So I sleep with other men. But because he is particular about fidelity, I constantly have to sneak around behind his back - not that this represents a moral concern for me, you understand, just a logistical one. The type of bloke I go for, moreover, is the diametrical opposite to my husband: good looking for sure (not that my husband isn't, especially), and not brutish as such, but definitely macho; arrogant and conceited, the kind of guy who wants me only for his momentary pleasure and isn't too bothered if we never see each other again after the act. My husband, on the other hand, obviously loves me deeply, and, if I am honest, I confess there is something that really turns me on about giving myself away so cheaply to strangers, whilst he must pay dearly for the smallest scrap of my affection.
To give you some idea of the lengths I have to go to in order to preserve appearances, however, while at the same time get the satisfaction I crave, let me describe the events that took place the other night while we were out at a restaurant.
It was during one of his business trips, which I never normally accompany him on, but on which this time he had invited me, in some sunny European clime. I had to hide my slight disappointment when I was forced into accepting, however, as although I would normally enjoy a brief sojourn abroad - I often use the ruse of a girly city-break with my friends as an excuse for a rampant weekend of debauchery - this time I was particularly looking forward to reaping the fruit of a certain tryst I had been cultivating with a gentlemen in our Barbican apartment block. But he had whinged on that it would be great for me to accompany him, how he always missed me so much, and how the firm would be paying the expenses so he would personally stump up the extra for a posher suite, which made it impossible for me to decline.
So I agreed, reluctantly, with a pout and a flutter, how I would deign to join him as long as he made it worth my while by taking me out in the evenings and giving me shopping money for during the day. He agreed readily, with a twinkle in his eye, and I knew then (with an internal grimace of boredom) that I would thus be expected to sleep with him as part of the bargain; it was inevitably he would consider it 'romantic', wherever we were. This I was prepared to put up with, however, in the presumption that while he was out at his conference I would be able to search out some real talent and satisfy my desire in absentia.
As bad luck would have it, however, there was no talent to speak of; at least none that readily presented itself. Most of the good-looking men seemed to be hiding somewhere sunnier, or the ones I did spy about were either taken, ignoring my advances, or both. What was more it rained for most of each daytime, only drying up a little in the evenings which we were then condemned to spend together, chatting aimlessly about his day at work over wine and a dinner in some local low-market bistro. By the end of the third day I was fed up to tears, and frustrated with only his limp ministrations in the bedroom to pleasure me by; which never seemed to last long enough or go hard enough to really do the job. His penis was just the wrong side of average to really hit the spot, and where we didn't have sex all that often he too was frustrated and always came too soon, just as I was starting to get going. On our fourth and final night, however, I did finally find my man.
We had gone out to dinner and I was moody and coquettish, spurning his attempts to cheer or amuse me in his usual idiotic way - which occasionally has its charm, I admit, but which this day was no substitute for what I really needed. But when we got to the restaurant I was pleasantly surprised by the presence of a handsome and broad-shouldered waiter, who would tend to us during the dinner service. I determined from the start that this was the mark I had been looking for, and one way or another to have my way with him (or more accurately to let him have his way with me!). Even as we walked in, therefore, I was casting him my most blatant and lustrous glances.
As dinner progressed, whenever my husband's eyes were averted, I would throw our waiter a sultry stare, or brush the back of his thigh with my hand as he poured the wine beside me, motioning to my husband with the other to apprehend the charming décor in the window, or the town lights glistening on the sea surface outside. I did everything but pinch the guy's backside in front of my husband, but the latter never noticed and the former, to his credit, reacted with utmost proficiency and never once responded overtly to my advances. I knew well, however, that he had received my message loud and clear.
As the evening pressed on my husband began to yawn and play tired. I thus perked up a bit and begged that I was only just enjoying myself for the first time of the holiday, and couldn't we please order another bottle and another dessert to share. He agreed, somewhat reluctantly, looking at me a little suspiciously and eying the waiter every now and then as if he had somehow cottoned on to our exchange of glances whenever his back was turned. But he didn't let the notion take him, and instead condescended to patronise my entreaties.
Basically, my plan was to dwell him up a bit till the restaurant started to thin out - I could already see our waiter nursing a beer by the bar between bussing tables - then I would make some excuse to use the ladies' room and bribe a waitress to distract him while I was away; looking about, the pickings were slim, but I spotted one of the girls who was not too plain or flat-chested and figured she would be enough to do the job. Then I would take the waiter off into the bathroom and have him fuck me the way I wanted.
And it worked. After a little while longer a big party that had been dining on the other side of the restaurant departed, and that left only a few sparsely populated tables which the other staff could handle. The lights were low, candles shimmering in their cut glass containers on the table tops, and I made my excuses and got up. On my way past the bar I stopped to talk to the waitress, ostensibly to ask her which way the bathroom was but really to slip her a twenty and tell her to look after my husband. She played dumb at first, looking at me in puzzlement, but I upped the anti with another twenty and nodded discreetly in the direction of the waiter. He caught my gaze and took his cue, abdicating his bar stool and moving off into the back. She nodded in understanding and wiggled off as best she could to a table just beyond his, making sure to knock my husband 'accidentally' with her rear on the way by and then follow up with a bit of flirty chit-chat. Meanwhile, I followed the waiter into the back.
When I got round the corner he was standing by the bathroom door, holding it open for me like a gentleman, and signifying the 'out of order' sign he'd cleverly hung on the front of it. I giggled quietly and let him shepherd me into the tiny cubicle which he locked behind us.
As soon as I turned to face him he ripped the front of by blouse down roughly, popping off the top few buttons which rattled and pinged on the floor. Then he began groping my chest coarsely, squeezing my two generous tits together and pointing my nipples upwards provocatively. I tussled my hair and threw my head back for him, moaning loudly, at which motion he dived his head downwards and enveloped my mounds in his mouth, curling his tongue round each nipple and sucking them hungrily. Already I was wild with sexual appetite, and knowing we didn't have long pulled his face up to mine and kissed him passionately upon the mouth. He groped his hands up the sides of my legs, pushing my flouncy little skirt up and pulling my moist panties to one side efficiently. The man exuded experience.
With one hand on my arse and the other between my legs, he slipped a hot finger deep into my aching wet pussy and began stroking it in and out. I continued to kiss him and smother his face with my lips, licking his neck and biting his ears and shoulders playfully. I was really beginning to enjoy myself and squeaked and giggled ecstatically.
When I felt myself nearing orgasm, I pulled away and sat down on the dark wooden toilet seat. Spreading my legs, I unzipped his trousers and unbuckled his belt impatiently. I slid his boxers down around his ankles. His long fat cock sprang to attention. It was not yet fully erect, but very clean and of the same Latin complexion as the rest of his tanned skin. It smelt lightly fragranced, too, as though it had been thoroughly and recently washed with scented soap. I took it in my mouth hungrily and sucked on it, soon coaxing it to its full size and strength with the flat of my eager tongue.
