I stirred early on Friday morning. The sun was trying to break through the heavy curtains in our bedroom, bathing everything in a dimly spectral half light. I turned into Sarah's warm, soft, body beside me and luxuriated in that animal bliss that sleeping with a woman can give you. I was definitely entertaining thoughts of expanding this warm, comfortable, embrace into some lazy morning sex. My wife was still fast asleep, her curly blonde hair messed over her eyes and her mouth slightly open as she breathed slowly and rhythmically.
I kissed her shoulder above the pipe-strap of the silk night dress I bought for her last year. I love how it clings tight around her bust and how the hemline only goes mid-thigh. It's champagne coloured, and she never wears panties with it, which drives me wild. Just as I was about to awaken her with kisses, my phone started ringing and buzzing around on the dresser. In the early morning silence the vibrating racket was intense. I fumbled for it and frantically tried to swipe it to answer. Sarah stirred beside me, rubbing her eyes and yawning.
- Hello
- Hi. It's me.
Corinna Watson's low and breathy voice filled my ear, instantly shooting a barb of ice into my stomach. Corinna was my colleague on the Artson Project. We had worked shoulder-to-shoulder for months through that gruelling contract. Late nights, tense showdowns with the client, ultimatums and deadlines. We were a great team, the best Architects in the Shumann-Massey Firm.
I also had an affair with her.
They say Karma has a way of catching up with you...
It happened by accident. She had flirted with me for months, but I laughed it off. I didn't think a woman that beautiful could be interested in me. Then, one late evening, when Artson made yet another of their calls threatening to cancel, we became so stressed-out we lost our minds. We were arguing and shouting when something snapped, and, before I knew it, we started tearing into each other. Soon I was nailing her on my desk, her skirt around her waist, and my trousers bunched at my ankles. .
Yes, I'm a douche. I shouldn't have done that. Nor should I have banged her in the supply closet during lunch hour;the next day. Or, in my car later that week. Or, in the motel room we hired. Or, maybe not the five times we did it during the two-day conference in London. Damn, we had a hard time explaining why neither of us had any notes from that trip.
Corinna was so physically unlike Sarah that it was a huge turn-on. She had a sultry Italian look about her. Athletic rather than curvy with long legs and deep-dark hair. A sharp contrast to my wife's buxom-blonde sexuality. Being with Corinna energised me sexually. Even Sarah was benefiting (somewhat) as I over-compensated for my infidelity by having sex with her more often, and with new inventiveness. I was like a teenager, with endless erections and endless capability. One week I had sex with both women for five days straight, like a ping-pong ball bouncing between them. On any given day I might jump Sarah in the morning and screw her to the mattress before she got out of bed. Later, I'd take my desensitised cock and work-over Corinna's lithe body with the endurance of a long-distance runner. On another day, I would fuck my co-worker, hard and dirty, wherever we could get privacy, before going home and making long, slow, love to my wife for hours. Massaging her, patiently eating her out, changing positions constantly, until she found her way to a deep orgasm.
For twenty weeks life was perfect. It was wrong, but it was perfect, and I never wanted it to end. The excitement of keeping my affair hidden was both thrilling and dangerous to me. I'd had close calls. Like times when Sarah called my desk phone and Corinna answered. Times when they almost met. I had to keep my wits sharp. Skirting conversations when each woman asked suspicious questions about the other. Corinna was like a drug to me; I couldn't get enough. She was bewildering in her craziness - deeply creative, deeply unpredictable, and she wanted me just as much as I did her. I did realise that, for her, there was a deeper need in our affair than just sex. Being with me brought out her creativity, her genius. Every time we did something wild, something dangerous, she produced the most outstanding designs, working in feverish spurts, as if she was "cumming" mentally. Every time we crashed together physically she became more creative, more innovative. I delighted to feed this fire. When she was like this, nothing could stop her.
Like on the evening of 9th July. Sixteen weeks into the project, twelve weeks into our affair, Artson finally cancelled. They called us into their plush mahogany-and-leather board-room and crushed us. Apparently, we didn't have the "inspiration" for their "flagship" office building. As I filed out behind our CEO and the Artson execs I saw Corinna catch the elbow of Henry Wineman, Artson's president, and say something to him. We were already in the lobby when we noticed she was missing and we had a confusing wait as Artson security delayed our taxi's and Artson execs made sheepish, embarrassed, small-talk with the guys they had just mercilessly canned. Then the elevator doors pinged and Corinna stepped out.
We had 24 hours.
Later that night, the whole Shumann-Massey building was black except for our lone office. Corinna and I worked like slaves, but we couldn't get it, couldn't crack it. I was frustrated, deeply stressed, and, something else was bothering me. How did we get another 24 hours after such a devastating shut-out? How did we get that stay of execution? What did she say that could possibly change his mind? Over a coffee break in the neutral zone between our desks I asked her. And listened in horror when she told me. She said that, when the boardroom door closed behind us, she got down on her knees in front of Henry Wineman and begged for another 24 hours to come up with the design. Begged him. She told me that, watching her pleading from her knees gave the dirty old bastard a big bulge in his trousers and, when she saw it, she opened his zipper and started begging a completely different way. Minutes later, she got her 24-hours. I was disgusted, livid, raging that my woman, (one of my women), could be degraded like that. That she would
betray
me like that. Let that happen to her. She got angry too. She said she did what she had to do to save our asses. I didn't own her anyway. Who did I think I was. We were shouting again. Pushing. Grabbing. Kissing. Bending her over her desk. Skirt yanked up, panties yanked down. Kicking her ankles apart. Panting. Pushing inside. Her hands, flat on the desk. Gasping. Her head down. Looking back between her legs. Fucking.
After a few minutes I noticed something strange as Corinna picked up her technical pen and started to draw even as I fucked her. I looked over her shoulder as she sketched, holding herself up with her left hand and her face almost on top of what she was drawing. She gasped and panted onto her creation, lost in it. I slowed my hips and stopped buffeting her body so hard. Now she could balance better and keep a steady hand. And how her hand was steady! The lines flowed and curved on the paper as she worked. Straight when I pushed in, and curved when I pulled out. I put my hands on the desk to take my body weight off her, my fingers intertwining with her support hand and my chin on her shoulder, watching her create as my cock moved inside her. I fucked her slowly as she panted and made soft female noises at the paper.
This is how we worked for the next hour, with me fitting my body into the rhythm of her creativity. No groping, no pulling and dragging, just moving my length in and out of her slippery-damp tunnel. Letting her feel it. Every now and then she would buck her ass, looking for more stimulation, and I would give it to her a little harder. As the drawing progressed she demanded more and more until we were at a point not so different from our normal passionate lovemaking. I came inside her. She kept drawing. Desperately, I kept up my thrusting pace, willing my cock to stay hard. She was rushing the last parts, trying to finish before an orgasm took her. The effort was intense. Suddenly she dropped the pen and slapped her palm on the desk. She was holding her breath but, her shoulders were shaking. She was coming. She quivered in silence for minutes, a sheet of paper unconsciously crumpled in one hand, and her pussy clenching and unclenching on my tool. Eventually she laid a trembling cheek on her creation and closed her eyes.
I was exhausted, barely able to hang on to her as I looked to see the results.
She had sketched out the window arrangement for the Artson building's gigantic atrium. It was a masterpiece, artistic and functional, modern and timeless. Light would scatter through it into the space below. She had created a huge, building-tall, lattice of window openings all with the same motif, a "lemniscate", endlessly repeated, interlocked, and overlaid. The lemniscate is the symbol denoting infinity, a figure-eight turned on its side, with no beginning and no end. Hers was not a perfectly rendered mathematical symbol, as that would not translate well into the concrete and steel of a corporate headquarters. Instead it was something she had modified, something she had drawn from her imagination. The loops of the eight were stretched and thin to allow interlocking, and the crossover was thick to give structural support. It confounded me; I had seen it before. It was somewhere in the edge of my mind. Where had I seen it? When I stepped back everything was revealed. A lemniscate. Stretched and distorted into a new shape. A shape exactly like that a woman's panties might take if they were stretched between her knees. Stretched between her knees exactly the way they might be if she found herself suddenly getting fucked from behind.
At the gala opening of the Artson building a string quartet played for the politicians and company luminaries while they sipped champagne and chattered like magpies in the huge lattice-work atrium at the building's centre. All of the men were wearing tuxedos and the women were almost as uniform in their little black numbers and evening gowns. From afar it could have been a funeral not a celebration of the country's 31st tallest building. I came out of the Venetian marble bathroom feeling pretty happy with myself and stopped to see Corinna and Sarah deep in conversation by the fountain. I froze in fear. They were standing square on, holding their glasses like weapons, and sizing each other up as they talked. I was too far away to hear anything said but I could tell it wasn't a vacuous chat about the weather. This was the very thing I dreaded most. I shot forward and hustled my wife over to the company directors, babbling at her all the while. As she made bewildered small-talk with those dusty old bastards I chanced a glance over my shoulder and back towards the fountain. Corinna was still standing in the same place, conspicuous in her deep red cocktail dress among all that black, conspicuous in being the only person in the room standing alone. I didn't have to try to catch her eye, she was staring directly at me, her glare murderous.
When our second project kicked off, we stayed late the first night, fighting over the torsional strength of steel cable on a suspension bridge. When Corinna pushed her tongue into my mouth to find her muse I was cold inside. The atrium drawing had changed me. I had realised that I wasn't a lover to Corinna, I was a thing for her. Part of her career. She was using me. A stimulant.
It didn't stop me making love to her again. She could switch my body on at will
