Resolution 8

'You fucked Steve Robbins.'

'Never heard of him.'

It was true, she hadn't.

But she

had

fucked a lot of people without bothering to ask their names. So there was every chance she'd fucked this Steve person.

But it was her habit to deny everything.

Whatever people said, whatever tales they brought to him, in the end it was their word against hers. Nobody could

prove

anything, could they? Not unless her husband caught her with some guy's cock in her pussy.

The idea made her wet. When she was alone and needed to cum she often pictured that moment, and always imagined the arrival of her husband coincided with the eruption of the cock inside her.

That made her cum pretty much immediately, no matter where she was.

Office orgasms, she called them, because that's where they originated. In a short skirt she could easily reach her pussy with her fingertips and make herself cum as she sat at her desk, but she always kept her breathing and her body under control. No sudden gasps or jerks to give her away. She'd done it countless times, and people only noticed if she wanted them to.

And only the ones she hadn't fucked yet, obviously.

Every time her husband asked about her misdeeds, it made her wet. Talking to him about the men she'd fucked made her want the thrill of another illicit cock inside her even as she denied fucking the previous one. She'd quiz him for details, hoping he would describe what she'd done and make her wetter, and help her remember the where and when even though she hardly ever recalled the who.

If he'd ever touched her between the legs when they were talking about one of her supposed infidelities, he would have known she was guilty as charged, just by the heated, gooey wetness.

But she knew this time was different. His voice, his look, and his words.

Not "I've been hearing rumours about you again", or "I've been told you and the client spent a long time outside the bar last Friday". or any of the other gentle ways he normally brought these things into conversation.

Just a bland statement of fact. Like he knew it. Like he'd been there watching.

But she knew he hadn't, and so she remained silent, one eyebrow raised in query, encouraging him to say more and help her remember so she could pretend not to.

His problem was he was the wrong kind of lawyer. He had a degree in law, but he'd never been in a courtroom in his life. He specialised in corporate law. It was a world of constants, and he was happier doing the research than talking to clients about what he discovered. Let someone else do that. He loved the wheretofor and inasmuchaswhich of the legal world, and he was a giant among the pages of the reference books he worshipped.

She had a good job too. Insurance. Daddy's firm, so no wonder she'd risen up the ranks. Sleeping with the boss was what they all said, meaning the clever, talented and younger man her father had appointed as his heir apparent.

Everyone expected her to marry him, and they were all amazed when she chose the Clark Kent of the legal world instead. Her career path was halted at a stroke, just as her father threatened it would be when she refused his final, impossible demand.

'That's the last time I fuck someone just because you tell me to, and I'm definitely not marrying him for you. I'll choose my own husband.'

Clark Kent.

And she now forever Lois Lane, never Perry White, as she'd always been promised.

But she was still very well paid, and it was too late for him to cancel her trust fund. So she had already brought a great deal to her marriage: her income, all her own credit cards, her own car and her own wardrobe, and the big house in Surrey.

They lacked for nothing.

Except in the bedroom, it now seemed.

At first he'd done nothing with the DNA test results he'd been given.

But he watched.

And he saw enough to realise that all those stories must be true. Most times when his wife left the room at a party or a function, someone else went too. Not every time, but often enough. And never the same man twice. But it was always a man.

Familiar with the old adage about things that look like ducks, he also knew that in the real world nothing is true unless you prove it.

But if his suspicions were correct then there was almost no-one he could turn to for assistance, not a friend or colleague, because they were all guilty pf the same offence. They'd all fucked her.

So he went online. Feeling vaguely embarrassed, he filled in the form and sent a pair of his wife's knickers to a lab. They compared her DNA with the profile of the mystery woman who'd seduced a married man at the Summer Ball. Once he'd read the report he went back online and hired a private detective to follow his wife and report anything of interest. His words.

Now he had the answer. In his pocket, in fact.

He waited until they were sitting quietly at home, one of his favourite albums playing softly on the speakers. Situation normal. Until he dropped his bombshell.

Understanding people, reading faces and interpreting body language -- these were outside his portfolio of talent. But he could see at once that she knew this wasn't anything to do with mere gossip. She bluffed anyway, just as she'd done so many times before. She always said she'd never heard of this or that person. Maybe it was true. Maybe she never asked their names so she could tell the truth while lying her pants off.

Pretty little pants, she always wore. He was going to miss them.

'Steve Robbins,' he repeated. 'I can't describe him, because I've never met him. But you have.'

'I'm afraid I don't remember,' was all she had left in her arsenal.

'You will,' he promised.

He'd intended to read the whole report aloud, but that seemed overly formal now. Anyway, he knew it all from memory.

'You met him three weeks ago. The 19th.'

She shrugged expressively: hardly surprising I don't remember him, her shoulders intimated.

'We attended a cocktail function at

Le Meridien

in Piccadilly. During the course of the evening you engaged in conversation with several people, all male, and when you left to visit the bathroom one of them followed you. He was a hotel resident and you went to his room.'

That

was Steve Robbins, was it? She genuinely had no recall of him, but she remembered the night. One of the rare times she'd been fucked on a bed. It was raining, or she would have gone outside, key card or not. She preferred fucking in the street like animals, or in some kind of public area where she could be seen if anyone happened by.

She'd leaned on the bed with her hands palm down and let him lift up her dress and drape it round her hips so it wouldn't get creased. He tugged her knickers aside and fucked her hard and fast.

She still didn't understand men. It was always like this, so quick it was hardly worth the effort, never mind the risk. But they'd do almost anything to have their cock in her pussy for a few brief seconds and fill it with their spunk. Such a primeval instinct. No wonder it made her cum too.

She'd been in his room for five minutes tops, and he was in her pussy for two of them. The rest was hair and make-up. Nice cock, she recalled, thick and strong. And lots of spunk. Add a minute for clearing that up as well. The memory made her wet as it always did, but so what? It was utterly deniable.

'He was a very nice man. He let me use his bathroom. You know I hate public toilets.'

All women do, of course, and all their husbands know it. She was busy constructing the imaginary conversation that could have led to her visit when he stopped her dead in her tracks.

'You were inside alone with him for six minutes. More than enough time for what people call a quickie, I believe.'

Six minutes? How did he know? Time to be slightly more aggressive with him, she decided. Best form of defence? Attack.

'Hardly enough time to use his bathroom, never mind his cock.'

'However, you did engage in sexual intercourse with him.'

Sexual intercourse. Lawyer's words. This had started badly, and now it was getting worse.

'Just over a year ago you did something very similar with a man at the Summer Ball. His wife saw you having sex in the car park.'

The Brighton Line? It was

that

tone of voice. The car park?

'She had the foresight to send his undergarments for analysis. The lab found your DNA along with that of her husband. She suggested I pick my moment and do something similar.'

This was beyond the reach of even her best bluffing, so she remained silent, hoping it would end. But it didn't.

'When we got home after cocktails I took the knickers you were wearing when you went to room 1422 with Steve Robbins, and sent them to the same lab. They contained your DNA of course, and a substantial quantity of seminal fluid

Ergo

, you had sex with another man. DNA will prove that man was Steve Robbins, if it becomes necessary.'

She sat in silence, numb.

'The following night you had dinner with friends. One of them gallantly offered to walk you home and you thanked him by stopping in a doorway at number six Warwick Street and engaging in what is known as a knee-trembler. You wore a thong that night, which tested positive for semen, DNA profile unknown, certainly not mine.'

Wet. She was so wet she thought her pussy had burst.

'The next night, Thursday, you came straight home with me after work, but I took the precaution of having your knickers tested anyway. Also positive for semen. The DNA profile is once again not mine. I assume he was a colleague, and I assume you had sex with him at work.'

In the stationery cupboard, almost certainly, she thought. Another eager young man trying to claim his prize and cum in the boss's daughter.

'On Friday evening I was delayed by a conference call with the West Coast. You went for a drink with work colleagues. Two of them escorted you to the car park, and you went up to the roof, where you stripped naked, bent over a car bonnet and let them take turns. In public.'

The car park was overlooked by several blocks of flats and she knew there'd be people watching. She stripped for them, not the two boys she picked up in the bar, and she'd very carefully got dressed afterwards so everything would appear normal when she met her husband later. She remembered enjoying the sensation as she felt their cum leaking out of her still-swollen pussy and into her knickers while he chatted about the Law of Assignment or something.

'On Saturday night we attended a gala ball in aid of cancer research. While I was discussing our donation with the organiser you were having sex with her husband in an empty room just down the corridor.'

He'd led her to one of those little conference rooms you find in all hotels. They were usually lockable, and equipped with strong tables over which a girl could lean. She'd taken a firm grip on the far edge, and taken a lovely firm fucking. He kept trying to give her his phone number afterwards. As if.

'I'm leaving for New York first thing in the morning. I shall be away a week. When I return I shall expect to find no trace of you in this apartment. You can take anything you want from it.'

She had almost no personal possessions. no trinkets, ornaments or family heirlooms. There were no paintings or prints, just a scattering of framed photos. All were of her, smiling into the lens, seducing the camera with that look.

He got up and went to the spare room.

She heard him turn the key.

She'd always known it would end like this.

But she never thought it would have taken him ten years to notice.

She knew that her looks, and the sparkling, vibrant charm that allowed her to attract any man she chose, also gave her the power to seduce her husband into trusting complacency. Her condition was at once the sickness and its cure.

Which therapist had told her that?

She couldn't remember.

Probably the gay one, immune to the force of her sexuality, the only one who hadn't succumbed. He told her drugs could help, and he was probably right. But she gave up after three months, horrified at the zombie she'd become. Wading through a sea of beta blockers did not match her definition of being alive.

But without the chemical cloak she was eternally trapped by hateful memories that still made her wet. What's the best fuck you ever had? She'd never been able to answer that question truthfully. She was Daddy's girl for ever, keeping our little secret all her life.

Knowing she wasn't alone was no help. The world was full of pretty young runaways, all avoiding the same questions she did, trapped in a social pantomime, all with that look on their faces and in their eyes.

And mine I suppose, she reflected.

I've heard men say that if they walk into a room of anonymous women they can pick out the ones they can control and manipulate just by looking, It must be the same way I recognise compatriots.

Survivors

We're meant to call them survivors now.

They use their assets like I do, and men flock admiringly round them, all competing for the chance to be chosen, acting as if the cuckold husband hasn't got a vote. Which he hasn't.

I saw one not long ago, watching his wife and her coterie of admirers, pretending he believed it was just social intercourse instead of a prelude to the other kind, and for a moment he looked a thousand years old. He knew what she was doing, but he let her get on with it because it was the price of ownership. That's what he paid for keeping her in his house, holding her beauty close when the other guys were tucked up in bed with their own wives, dreaming of the looks, the smile, the body and the pussy that was his, and always would be. For as long as he went on ignoring the obvious.

Keeping the social contract.

Me too. I don't want to tell anyone what happened. No more doctors, no more drugs and definitely no more heart-to-hearts with a lover I thought would be able to cope. I'd only tried once.

'I can't be your partner and your therapist,' he said, as he packed his bag.

But it didn't matter. The world is full of men who are enraptured by pussy, and all the time it's my pussy they're lusting for, I make the rules.

She poured a drink, and decided to put off deciding where to go until tomorrow, There was always tomorrow.