G'day
Here is another story but be warned the theme of this one is a departure from my most recent efforts. No cute and cuddly Aussies here. I apologize in advance if I got some geographical references wrong.
I have got to give a special thanks to Yoni Noni for her help editing. Her suggestions and changes made a big difference to the finished product.
Warning: Wives have sex with a man other than their husbands. If that is offensive to you then perhaps you should bypass this story.
Otherwise who knows you may enjoy it!
Cheers
CharlieB4
*
I walked into the restaurant and the head waiter rushed over to greet me. "Good evening sir! So nice to have you here again. We have our usual table ready. Please, follow me!"
"That's it boy, grovel." I thought to myself. "Your know what you have to do to get a big tip." I followed him through the busy dining room. People turned and followed our progress, no doubt wondering who this was that had the snotty prick head waiter in such a panic. I waited for him to pull out my chair, then sat down. Holding my hand out, I didn't utter a word.
He placed the menu in my hand, then retreated. "I'll just get your usual, sir," he said, before winding his way back through the other tables.
My position was important. A corner table in a slightly raised area that gave me a view of the entire dining room. There were five other tables in this area, but they didn't interest me. The occupants of these tables had enough money to make my offer inconsequential. Nor did the harbor view; stretching out through the large glass wall behind my back, hold my gaze. My focus was on the other diners in the "cheaper" seats.
This restaurant had always been a fine dining mecca. Three chef's hats in the local food guide and an international reputation, thanks to the chef, who had become a celebrity; writing cookbooks, judging on TV cooking shows and being seen with a bevy of models. He basked in his over-rated reputation. It was a place for the wanna-be's. First dates, anniversaries, corporate tables, and people seduced by the name and the image of its star chef made up for much of the clientele.
It offered fine food and charged a fortune for it. It was perfect for me, because it was a smorgasbord for a man with my particular kink. I liked fucking married women. I liked it a lot. I especially liked it if a reluctant husband watched as his wife was reduced to a wanton slut, willing to do anything to get her desires met.
While I pretended to look at the menu, I scanned the tables, looking for likely marks. Dismissing larger groups, I was scanning the tables for two, dismissing the younger ones. They would probably be first-date or engaged couples. I wanted the ones who had been married for a while, one or two kids, but the wife still had looks. Once I had reduced the field, I cherry-picked further; looking at the clothes they were wearing and trying to deduce their economic status. I was looking for a man in a dodgy suit, or with an expensive shirt that had fresh-out-of-the-box creases. He was a fish out of water in this place.
The wife, or partner, had to fit different parameters. Obviously, as I have said previously, she had to be attractive and have a decent figure. I was a sucker for big tits, so a little extra flesh around the middle and bottom was sometimes the price I had to pay. Her dress had to be sexy, but conservative. There were always some with micro skirts that paused when they picked up there handbag beside the table, to give other diners a flash. Or, low cut tops with acres of flesh exposed to titillate the males eating nearby. I preferred mine to be better covered, with subtle hints to the treasures that lay beneath.
I did make exceptions: if she seemed uncomfortable in her skimpy clothing; if she stood up carefully, holding her skirt down or tugging at the hem in the hope that it would somehow grow longer. She was obviously a modest woman who had made a choice that she now regretted. She might regret it even more eventually, if she accepted my offer.
I also took careful notice of the body language when they were looking at the menu. Seeing the man stiffen as he checked the price column was also a give away that he might be open to my inducements.
I hadn't always done this. I had been married myself for twenty years. I was born into a wealthy family. That is, my mother was from a wealthy family. My father got his money the easy way. He seduced my mother and got her pregnant, then married her. He then set about doing everything he could to spend that wealth. I was raised by nannies and then sent to boarding school. I rarely saw my parents as they tripped around the globe. In those early days there were no fast jet airplanes so they mostly traveled by ocean liner.
There were two times my father took time out to be some sort of a dad. The first was the day after my eighteenth birthday. It was during Summer break from school, and I was at home. My parents were going on another trip to which I wasn't invited. My father had engaged a woman to look after me while they were away. She was different from the others who had done this job in the past. Younger, better looking; and she wore different, skimpier clothes. My mother left the room whenever she entered. The night before they left, my father came to my room. "Son, the next four weeks are going to be crucial in your life." He said earnestly.
"Yes sir," I replied formally.
"We are giving you the best education money can buy, but your next lesson can't be learned in school, or at university. It's a life lesson, and Betsy is the most qualified person to teach you." Betsy was my new nanny. "Son, there are three ways to get a lot of money: inherit it, marry it, or work for it." He counted off on three fingers to emphasis his point.
"I'm sorry son, but this gravy train will be exhausted before you can get your hands on it, so the first option is out. Number three is a possibility, but it is a path that many have trod and few succeed at. Which leaves you with number two; marry it. This path is also not easy, as there is a lot of competition for the best prospects. That's where Betsy comes in. She is a professional lady of pleasure, and if you follow her directions, you should become a master of the art. It will be a tool that many of your contemporaries won't have. So, cherish it and use it well."
He patted me on the head, and then left. They were gone early the next morning, and they were no sooner out the door than Betsy was walking into my room with a dressing gown on. She paused at my bedside, loosening the sash of the gown. She opened it, and smiled as my eyes widened, taking in all the delights of her feminine form. Opening her gown further, and shrugging her shoulders caused the gown to puddle at her feet, letting the early morning sunlight from the window illuminate her body. Grasping the covers on my bed, she pulled them back, exposing the tent that had formed in my pajamas.
"Ohhh, yes." She said, sitting on the edge of the bed and reaching with one of her small hands to grasp my still growing erection. "This will do nicely."
So began a pivotal four weeks in my life. I guess the cliche would be, 'a boy became a man'. My regular schooling continued, but Betsy stayed with the family. I'm fairly certain that my father was also a recipient of her charms. Once, as I slipped my dick into her after Christmas dinner, she gasped, "So much bigger than daddy!"
The second time that he took an interest in me was just after I'd graduated from university with a degree in business. He presented me with my graduation present; a bundle of files tied with a red ribbon. "Here's a leg up on marrying well." he said with a smug look on his face, "Three girls from wealthy families, for you to marry."
I untied the ribbon and opened the first folder, and read its contents. The only daughter of a wealthy businessman, it gave a complete rundown on her life: Her likes, her dislikes, interests, hobbies; a list of places she frequented, friends, acquaintances and rivals for her affection. The two remaining files were the same type of exposé for two other girls. I tossed the folders across the room, vowing to make it on my own.
After nine months of hard slog; long, boring hours of doing menial tasks at the bottom of the corporate ladder, I began studying those folders every night. Some quick scanning of the social pages told me that candidate number one was engaged to her university sweetheart. Candidate number two was overseas, working in the slums of South America, so she was out.
That left candidate number three, Jasmine Victor. The only daughter of Alison and Bernard Victor, and heiress to an estimated two hundred million dollar estate. Dad had been an entrepreneur: Started in mining, progressing into telecommunications; jumping just before that peaked, into biotech, and now ran a venture capital business.
