Copyright Andyhm. 2017
The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons. All characters engaging in sexual relationships or activities are 18 years old or older.
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To my immense surprise, Blackrandl1958 invited me to join her second legends' day. A big shock to me as I've never considered that my writing was on a par with the heavyweights of this genre. I was originally going to split this into two parts as it's a long story in two halves of which only the second part can be considered to fulfil the LW brief. The invitation to submit a story as part of the 2nd legends day made me reconsider and combine the parts. It does make it a long offering, and in my considered opinion it needs the long build-up to develop the characters; consider yourself warned. Also, there's no BTB or cuckolding; it's not my style.
Over the past year, I've had quite a few requests to write a follow-up to
The Woodworker's Wife,
one in which Marcus gets his comeuppance. I wasn't going to write one, in my mind he'd ridden off into obscurity, and I was happy to leave him there.
I had a story bouncing around in my thoughts, part romance with hints of loving wives. The chance to including Marcus as the villain was the perfect addition. It's not another tale of Dave and Zoe (they only appear in a cameo role), nor is it a true sequel. But it does have Marcus as one of the villains. It is possible to read this as a standalone story, in fact, that's how I wrote it. Although it might make a bit more sense if you've read
The Woodworker's Wife.
The main part of the story is set a couple of years after the events in TWW.
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The Accountant's Wife
Introduction: Where I set the scene.
I've read numerous tales on this and other erotic literature sites about wives falling for the insidious boss or coworker. Most of them seem, to begin with some version of the same statement; 'I was the last to know', 'there is an anonymous call', 'she stopped wanting sex' or the classic, 'we need to talk'.
Then, there's my version, which had none of the above in it. I know I was aware of the possibility long before Rebecca accepted that it was happening. Rebecca is my wife of eight years; she's a lawyer and has been working as a partner in her family's firm at their London office. For the past half year, she's been lead counsel on a case. Her client is the relative of an old college friend of her father.
She's an attractive woman, at least I think so; she is two years younger than me at 32. She's only five-foot-four. I call her my little elven princess: short black hair and the deepest green eyes I've ever seen, small firm breasts that suit her figure. She wears glasses for reading when needed, and has the cutest little nose set above a smile. It's a smile I see even when I'm not with her. Oh, and she's American and speaks with the most wonderful Georgia peach accent. Well, that's the way she described it to me when we first met.
I'm Michael James, or Mike, to my friends and I'm an accountant. Okay, I can almost hear the groans of boredom, but I'm not just any old accountant. I'm what's known as a forensic accountant. I'm one of the best in the world. I don't work for any old accountancy agency; I work for the best one in the world, my own. I'm the person the police call in to consult on the big financial crimes. Major international companies have me on speed dial. I've never needed to advertise.
I'm not an imposing figure of a man. I'm thirty-four years old, but look younger, tall and wiry with a face you would forget the moment you look away. I like it that way; people underestimate me, and it makes it so much easier for me to work my magic on their records. Dressed, I'm your typical junior office worker but hidden under those grey suits are a fit and very healthy body. I'm an amateur road cyclist and love riding whenever I can; it keeps me very fit.
I've found I can read people very well. Records, on their own, rarely tell the whole story, as I'd found numerous times. A person who is intelligent enough to steal money is more than capable of laying the blame on some poor patsy.
My favourite ploy is to... no, wait we need to get back to the issue at hand. My wife is being seduced, and she's completely unaware that it's happening. It sounds so cold when you say it like that, but that's what is happening. I've no intention of letting the bastard succeed, so back to my story.
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First act: Before.
Mathematics and science were my favorite academic subjects at school; I studied mathematics at university and fell in love with numbers. My tutors wanted me to take my place with them in the world of academia, but abstract numbers and calculations on their own didn't interest me. It was a chance encounter which pointed me down the path I followed.
I met a woman in the lounge bar of an hotel. Sounds like the start of a bad joke or a sleazy short story, doesn't it!
If it was, then the joke was on me. She was sitting in the corner with another woman, a woman I knew very well; she was my aunt and the only reason I'd agreed to be there that evening. Karen was eight years younger than my mother, but she'd always been around when I was growing up. She'd never married, limiting herself to a series of lovers. I had always enjoyed her visits; her presence always lit up my parents' house. The woman with her, the one my aunt had insisted I meet, was about to change the direction of my life.
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I was an only child, living in a run-down country house in the depths of the Sussex countryside. My parents, Simon and Ann, were anthropologists, both professors at Sussex University. They were always travelling, or so it seemed to me. I knew that they loved me; it was just that their academic careers meant I had been left to fend for myself with a series of housekeepers and
au pairs.
That's where Aunt Karen had come to my rescue, swooping in and taking me under her wing.
When I'd been almost seventeen, she had taken me with her on holiday. It was Easter, my parents were somewhere in Amazonia, and Karen took me to her lover's villa on the Italian Riviera. That was the year my true appreciation of the female body was formed. I know it's hard wired into all teenage boys, but that's just a mix of lust and hormones.
My aunt is bisexual; most of her lovers are women with the odd man thrown in for variety. Her lover was Francesca di Traglia, an Italian artist, and Francesca loved to paint women. She was an Italian beauty, slim, with long wavy black hair. At the time of our visit, she was two years younger than my aunt, 30 years old, but looked like she was in her mid-20s.
Karen is an amazing woman, beautiful in an ethereal way. Over the years, she's had many female lovers, sometimes a couple concurrently, but only two of her lovers have stood the test of time. Francesca was one, and I would have to wait another four years to meet the second.
I quickly got used to seeing semi-naked and, be still my beating heart, completely naked women around the villa. I think I fell in and out of love on an almost hourly basis that holiday. These idols of my heart were being posed by Francesca, or just lying around the pool. In addition to indulging my teenage hormones, Francesca opened my eyes to the beauty of symmetry within her paintings. There's an almost mathematical beauty to her paintings, and she was happy to let me watch her work.
It's also where I learned that less is more. Francesca discovered that I could draw, and she encouraged me to sketch the models staying at the villa. She studied my efforts; I would outline the scene in front of me in broad charcoal strokes, but when I tried to complete it, I'd lose the soul of the piece. I wanted accuracy; I wanted my paintings to reflect the structure, the symmetry of numbers. Francesca showed me I was wrong, that a few shaded lines on a sheet of paper could be, and were, so evocative of the sensual female form.
She once asked me to pose the model for her. I thought that I'd done a good job when I finally finished. I walked the last time around the pillow-strewn red chaise longue, and the young woman stretched across it looked perfect to my eyes. Karen and Francesca, arms around each other, watched me silently. I gestured in their direction and presented my masterpiece.
Good effort, I was told, and then Francesca proceeded to give me a true master class in how to display the potential beauty within a woman's body. In ten minutes, the model and the pose were transformed, and I'd been given an insight into the hidden beauty of all women I have never forgotten. No part of the model was hidden from me as Francesca moved around touching, caressing and teasing the model until she looked like a woman whose lover had just left her sated on her bed.
My drawing of that model hangs in Francesca's bedroom. To this day, it's one of my best pieces. The lines of the various colored pastel chalks merge and shimmer into the whole vision: an innocence of beauty as seen by a boy yet to be corrupted by life.
She also infused into me a love of cycling. Francesca's passion was art, her relaxation was the wind in her hair as she hurtled along the dusty lanes on her racing bike. She lent me a bike, and we rode together most mornings. She bought me my first professional bike, and I rode that bike every day when I returned home.
Karen and I returned to the villa in the autumn of the following year. I was eighteen, and it was just before I started university. Francesca's current lover and model was Prithi, a beautiful twenty-one-year-old bisexual Indian girl. I wasn't a virgin; a few fumbles after a party over the summer had taken care of that.
Prithi took it upon herself to show me what a woman wants from her lover, lessons that lasted for weeks and are now eternally burnt into my psyche. I will ever be grateful to that lovely woman for the rest of my life. She taught me the one important rule: sex is a manifestation of desire, lust and love. Remove one of the three and the sex is still good but lacks the greatness it deserves.
My last evening at the villa was one I will never forget. It began with a meal for Francesca, Karen, Prithi and me on the terrace. It ended with Francesca taking me to bed. She was Italian, sensual and loved the act of love more than she loves life itself.
I learned that she took very few men to her bed; I was only the fifth. I'd thought that she was a lesbian and my aunt's lover and she wasn't interested in the dark side of sex. That night I found out, to my intense satisfaction, I was wrong. Francesca took all that I'd learned from Prithi and then took me to a new level of sexual pleasure.
