Revenge Is a Dish Best Served Hot

Revenge is a dish best served hot - Part 1

Author's Note:

This work of fiction is copyrighted to KamalaSutra 2021. No reproduction of this story of any kind, whether in softcopy or hardcopy or any other virtual or printed form is permitted without the express written consent of the author. The characters in this story are not based on any real persons, living or dead, and any resemblance is purely coincidental.

Anniversary as beginning

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a married man, away from his wife, will find himself suddenly in need of a fuck.

It was six o'clock in the morning when I looked at the photo on the screen of my iPhone. It had been sent to me by a friend of mine in London. Clearly visible was a pretty blonde, her happy face tilted upwards as her parted lips accepted a deep kiss. Bestowing the favour was a man whom I thought I knew well. My husband Sanath.

The photograph had been taken in a bar in London at 11.30 PM. Because of the time zone difference with Colombo, I had seen it first thing when I woke up the next morning. Like today. Not the best of ways to start the day.

I had lost count of the number of times I had looked at that picture since that fateful morning. Each time I promised myself I would never look at it again. But I could never bring myself to delete it.

That photograph had been sent to me over a year ago. It was the starter's gun for my divorce, which had come through faster than expected. Today was the first anniversary of my big D. Special in its own way. I grinned at the thought, and then a second one floated into my brain. You've come a long way, baby.

I thought back to the morning the photograph had arrived.

When we had spoken the previous night, just before I had sunk into my bed at around eleven in Colombo, ready to sleep, it was still early evening in London. Sanath had said he had just gotten back to his hotel and had some time to talk to me before he left for an important business dinner along with his boss. He had told me he was lying back on the bed after a tiring day. I told him I was in bed.

There was a moment's silence.

"Facetime?" he said.

I giggled in delight. It was one of those special private things we did together.

"Sure." I replied in my best husky throaty voice.

He came into view. I could see he was dressed in one of his best suits and tie. He smiled at me and moved the camera slowly to his crotch, which he was stroking with the fingers of his other hand. I could see the bulge. I smiled at him with parted lips and gave him my best smoky look. He liked that.

"Show me," he said.

I was wearing satin pyjamas, and I slowly undid the buttons of the top and showed him my breasts. My breasts are not huge at 32C, but they're firm and perky with small nipples that tend to become very hard when I'm aroused. They were standing straight out now, and I caressed them and squeezed my breasts. He loved watching me do that. My nipples are quite sensitive, and I could feel my juices start to flow in my cunt. His bulge was noticeably larger now.

"Show me" I whispered in turn.

"Not yet." he grinned. "You know what I like."

"Damn you." I responded. I knew what he wanted me to do.

I reached into the side table next to my bed and took out my favourite vibrator from the drawer. It was an Ann Summers Moregasm Rabbit in purple. I was already wet enough to not need any lube. I rubbed the big purple head over my vaginal lips, showing him how wet and slick I already was. Then I inserted it slowly watching his reaction, pushing it in and out, enjoying the sensation even with the vibration off, I couldn't stop myself starting to pant as his hand stroked his penis through his trousers. Then I turned the switch on.

The rabbit started to flick my clitoris and I gasped with the sudden intense pleasure.

"Show me now" I commanded him pushing the Moregasm as deep as I could into my vagina. I could feel the head hitting my G-spot now, and my body was starting to heave from the sensation of my clitoris getting flicked by the rabbit ears, my vagina opened by the thick shaft and my G-spot losing control.

He unzipped his trousers, and his penis sprang out, fully erect. He grasped the shaft firmly and started masturbating himself. I could hear his gasps also. I could see the precum trickling out. We watched each other, trying to control ourselves to see who would lose. No matter how many times we tried it, I was always the first to come. He had good control, my Sanath. His penis was around six inches long, just the right length, and reasonably thick, shaped almost like a cylinder.

In a few minutes, my control evaporated, and I threw my head back and let the orgasm overtake me. Both of us had placed our phones on the side table for a good view - we'd had lots of practice in this and could do it anywhere - and my back arched and my hips bucked as the orgasm surged through me. I could hear myself moaning in short sharp gasps. Then slowly I came down off the high and realised that his phone was off. I couldn't see anything. Moments later, the message notification beeped. The first idiotic thought that came to my mind was that the blonde's mouth was wide enough to take his penis comfortably.

"Sorry babe. call from boss. Talk to you later. Stay wet."

And that was it. The next morning at six o'clock, my phone had beeped, and I had seen the pic. We'd had a great thing going, or so I'd thought.

What made it worse was that everyone had thought it was a perfect match. We had met while classmates in MBA school, and quickly made the move into a relationship on campus. I chose him because he had so much energy and a great smile. He was good looking in a rugged kind of way and had a yen for wild times. Maybe that should have warned me. But he was going to be very successful, there was no doubt about it. He was acceptable to my family, besides, although perhaps more to my mother than my father. As for me, I was quite a standout in my class, maybe not a bluestocking like some of the other girls, but all the guys liked my looks! I am tall, around 5 feet 10, athletically built, with smallish breasts as I said, but with an ass and legs that even I would describe as gorgeous. As for my face, I was once a teen pageant finalist in my school days in Colombo. I wear my wavy hair to just below the shoulder to frame my heart shaped face, have big eyes that are invariably described as big and beautiful, and a mouth that has just the right amount of smile and just the right amount of plumpness on the lower lip to get a rise, in more ways than one, from the guys. I was a "burgher" in origin, so my skin was somewhat fairer than the average Sri Lankan.

Still, we took five years before we finally tied the knot. As expected, Sanath was immediately grabbed by one of the world's best known American corporations and started his career rise in quite an impressive way. As for me, my family was very prominent in Colombo political and business circles, so I got a comfortable job with one of the major banks. For the most part, I stayed in Colombo while Sanath started to jet around the world. Not that I missed travel; because our family was quite affluent, I had already seen a good deal of the world. Marriage and job taken care of, I slid comfortably into the life of a prominent Colombo socialite.

The only flaw in the painting was the absence of a child. Sanath was very keen, but I ended up having an unfortunate miscarriage, and after that I kind of lost interest. Besides, we both liked to claim we were very egalitarian, and so would be willing to forego a child because the world was already overpopulated. If we had to, we might adopt a child later. As for our sex life, we had spent so much time fucking before we had gotten married that the other things in life started to gain more importance as the years went by. I liked to affect a slightly superior air at socialite soirees, asking archly, to shock or simply irritate people: "Is sex really all that important?". It was the kind of attitude that went well with the personal image and brand I was slowly building up, eyeing my future in Colombo society.

Well, apparently sex was important to Sanath, I thought to myself as I looked at the pic on my phone screen that crazy morning. We had blown a good thing sky high. Or rather, he had. Because when I started asking around, I found that the London babe was not the first. Not by a long shot. Like the cliche, I was the wife that found out last.

I also realized something else. It was the kinky taboo stuff that turned him on. Like our Facetime sessions, for example. Or the lingerie he brought back for me. Or the Moregasm itself. That had been a present from him. I had made a scene when he brought it out of his suitcase, but he had persuaded me to try it, just one time. That had certainly not been the last time. He had moved on from vanilla and I hadn't spotted it.

When he returned from his London trip a week later, he found I had filed for divorce. With my family connections, the divorce went through tout de suite, as the French like to say.

I looked at the photograph again and thought back about the past year. A lot had happened. My life had taken on an entirely different trajectory. For one, I had quit my bank job and had launched my own designer apparel and accessories brand. I loved fashion and knew I had a talent for design. My family had gone all out to support me, and I had managed to turn a profit within the first year itself. I had also launched an NGO that worked with deprived and disabled children, and that was adding to my brand image. The elders in my family had indicated, as they approvingly watched my bounce back from the post-divorce blues, that they felt I had a future in politics. Professionally, my future was suddenly brighter than when I had been Sanath's wife.

For another, I had found out that I needed sex much more than I had realized.

This hit home to me when I suddenly woke up in the middle of the night just two days after the divorce. For a second, I felt a little disoriented. Then it dawned on me that my vagina was wet and tingling and that my nipples were really hard. Maybe I had had a dream. Whatever it was, I needed to pay some attention to my lady parts. Like right now! I fished out my trusty Moregasm and got to work. As I was woozily reaching an orgasm, an image suddenly flashed in my mind of a West Indian cricketer whom I had met during a party the previous evening. He had a nice stubble on his chin and upper lip, and I suddenly imagined that stubble between my thighs as he licked me. The I imagined us in a 69 and me taking his long thick tool - he was 6 feet 2 or so and I was quite sure he was hung enough - in my mouth, and then his tool fucking my brains out. I came so explosively that the bed shook. When I got my breath back, I downloaded Tinder and a couple of other apps onto my phone.

During the next year I fucked ten men in all. Three were one-night stands, five were potential partners (or so I had thought) and two were married. When I hit double figures, I had to admit something that I had been in denial of for some time.

None of them had made the grade as a potential long-term partner for my future. None of them were anywhere in the same class as Sanath. There was no longer any denying that truth.

This was a problem I knew most divorced women faced, especially those around the age of forty. My girlfriends and I had discussed it a lot. One of them, who spoke German had put it pithily:

Alles Manner sind Toiletten. Die Gute sind besetz, die Schade sind frei.

(All men are like toilets. The good are taken, the bad are free).

I had to reluctantly admit the truth of what she had said. Reluctantly because I had an ego. I was proud of my looks and personality, and I had vainly assumed that "the streets would be strewn with the bodies of men, shooting themselves for my sake", to quote a famous line from My Fair Lady; while Sanath writhed, absolutely writhed, in jealousy. Well, the bodies and penises of ten men, yes, but no shots so far. Not good.

Even more reluctantly, I had begun to consider questions that I had dismissed as impossible earlier. Had we, or I specifically, made a mistake? Had we/I been too hasty? Like I said, we had had a great thing going and we/he had blown it up.

The more I thought about it, the more I knew I was circling round the real questions. Did I want Sanath back? Would I be able to get him back?

I thought about that as I lay there in bed on the anniversary of my divorce. The simple answer was yes. I wanted him back. Despite what had happened, I thought I probably had a shot at getting him back because I knew he wasn't having much luck with finding a partner either. Being married and having one night stands on the side is one thing; to be divorced and lonely - all divorced people are lonely for some time at least - quite another. I was confident none of his liaisons would have compared with me, and I was sure he would have come to that realization also.

I thanked the Almighty that I had taken one correct decision in all that mess. Against the shocked horror of both our families, Sanath and I had discussed it out and decided we would remain friends after and in spite of our divorce. We would put the bitterness behind us. So, I was still in frequent touch with him. Yes. He still called me whenever he felt a little ill with a cold or a fever -- in this and in a few other ways, he was still psychologically dependent on me. One of his girl friends had even become a friend of mine, calling me for advice on how to handle his moods!

But - I decided that morning - there would be a new set of conditions when I had him back. He may have moved on from vanilla sex, but I had moved on too. What I wanted now was control. No more surprises at six in the morning. My success over the past year had changed me. I loved the sensation of being in charge of my own present and future. And I knew I wouldn't give that up when Sanath and I got back together.

Then I looked at my phone again and a smile came onto my face.

French Connection

I smiled because I had a message that had arrived overnight from Jacques. Jacques was Sanath's boss. He was a Frenchman, and every woman who had ever met him described him immediately as drop dead gorgeous. When he was in the gym, you could practically see the women wet themselves inside their tights. Sanath had told me that Jacques had had sex with over a hundred women, none of them paid for. In fact, it was Jacques's lifestyle that had led Sanath to stray, I had realized. Jacques had become a hero to Sanath, a role model whom he had tried to imitate. Except in one respect - Sanath had once told me there were rumours that Jacques was bisexual. Sanath was as aggressively heteronormative as could be imagined. Jacques was based in Dubai, looking after the entire South Asian region, including India and Sri Lanka.

At a party at a London club once, after the annual offsite, when I was slightly drunk, Jacques had propositioned me straight out. We were dancing close in a dark corner. Sanath had almost passed out with drinking too much. Sometimes he behaved as though he was still a student.

"You are so very beautiful. I want to make love to you." Jacques had whispered in my ear.

I tried to disengage myself, but he was very strong and very quick. He had already moved in closer. I could feel my breasts against his chest and the hard bulge in his trousers pressing into me. Despite myself, I could feel myself getting aroused.

"I'm married, you know" I whispered back. "And you're my husband's boss."

"In France everyone does it." he said. "It is normal."

I had to laugh at that.

"But not everywhere else." I said, now successfully putting a couple of inches between his body and mine. "There are so many beautiful single women around. Why don't you try them?"

And that was that. Until this morning when Jacques's message appeared on my screen.

"It's been one year since you've been single. I've waited patiently. Will you have dinner with me next time I'm in Colombo?"

All of a sudden, I knew what I was going to do. I was going to get Sanath back. And I was going to have a lot of fun in the process. And Jacques was going to be the key to it all.

I quickly tapped out on my screen:

"Good things come to those who wait".

About a fortnight later, I sat across Jacques in a corner of the bar in his hotel. I was in a stylish dress with a calf length skirt, the kind I favoured because of my height and figure. Opposite me, I saw an extremely handsome man with dark blonde hair cut very stylishly, piercing green eyes with the most mischievous look I had ever seen, and a goatee and moustache above the just visible stubble on his cheek. I liked that he had invited me over the phone for a glass of wine at seven, without any indication that he would have the time for us to progress to the bed in his room. That was classy of him. He spoke as I remembered with a pronounced French accent that I had always found rather endearing. His conversation was light and assured, with only the barest hint of flirting. I liked that also. I realized this was the classiest man I had been with in a long time, perhaps ever. On the drive to the hotel, I had had time to think things over, and I was amazed and a little unsure at how easily everything was starting to fall in into place. What were the odds? Someone who seemed to be just what I was looking for had literally fallen into my lap. He was going to change everything for me, and the nicest part was, he didn't know he was doing it.

"Do you mind if I ask you a question" he said, with that mischievous smile. "Why did you reply to me?"

"I wanted to see if both of us would still want to meet after a year" I replied.

"Well, glad you did, glad I'm here to meet you" he said. Then he raised his glass in my direction, "Here's to my good luck."

I raised my glass and tapped it against his lightly, and at that moment the deal was sealed. Up until then I had thought about having sex with him. After that brief toast, I knew I now wanted to have sex with him. I suddenly wanted him badly, wanted him passionately, wanted him in my belly all night. When I toasted to his luck, it was because, unless something went horribly wrong, he was going to get real lucky tonight and I was going to get laid in style; a win-win for both of us. Now there was a special kind of excitement, I was about to follow a gorgeous hunk to his room where we were going to fuck our brains out.

Even my underthings were right, delicate lace- edged pieces which was as insubstantial as wisps of cloud. I had chosen them really carefully. I generally didn't wear sexy lingerie to titillate men, but for my own benefit. Wearing a slutty bra and panty set under a conservative dress always make me feel sexy in a deliciously naughty way. But tonight, I had chosen them carefully to not just feel but also look as sexy as possible. Now that I was sure I was going to be out of my dress pretty soon, it was nice to know I was going to look hot and enticing.

With his arm behind my back, his hand on my hip, we walked silently out of the elevator towards his room. He had made no attempt to grab me on the way; as I may have mentioned, he was classy! When we went into his room, my breath caught at the spectacular view of the city laid out before us. He sat down next to me on the couch and I kind of leaned against him as he put his arm around my shoulders. He leaned over towards me to give me a kiss and I turned slightly towards him and slid one arm around his back while one hand rested on the crook of his neck; the beginnings of a welcoming embrace. I tipped my head a little awaiting his kiss.