It was a Friday afternoon in mid June.
I told my secretary that I would be out for the rest of the day and that I’d see her Monday, then made my way to the elevator and pressed the button for the underground car park.
I felt giddy as a school girl going to meet the hottest boy in school for the first time. Except this fantasy was real, and he and I had been adulterers for almost three months.
The first month had been lived in fear and self-loathing, the second in belly tingling anticipation, the third in excitement and an acceptance that the deed was done, and that no amount of wishing could un-crack the egg. Even if I’d wanted to.
I sometimes caught myself smiling inappropriately while I sat at my desk, my thighs rubbing together as my memory, always so damnably accurate, recalled spine-tingling sensations; his fingers buried inside me, his lips kissing, his tongue bathing my labia – threatened to send me spiralling into another knee trembling orgasm.
If I closed my eyes, I could see the grinning Italian looming over me, his strong hands cupping the cheeks of my bottom, heaving me up as he savagely thrust his penis deep into my wet vagina.
Some days I behaved like a horny schoolgirl, rushing to the ladies lavatory in the middle of the day, checking each cubicle to make sure I was alone, then locking myself in, to haul up my skirt, dragging down my pants and inserting my fingers between my legs, rubbing wildly until my knees buckled and the hot fluid gushed over my fingers.
Then desire would be replaced by shame, as I pulled up my damp panties and rolled down my skirt. After a while, when my breathing slowed, I’d ease back the noisy catch on the cubicle door, peering out, checking to see if the coast was still clear, hoping that I hadn’t let out a scream at the moment of blessed, ecstatic release.
Washing the stickiness from my hands and drying them, I sniffed the fingers for traces of pussy, while I scowled at myself in the mirror, wondering at the wild eyed stranger who scowled back.
There was no denying it, I wasn’t the same person I’d been three months before. Even my husband had noticed the change when we made love.
I guess to him, it was proof that he was hitting the spot; that his technique had created a wife that hungered more and more for his eight and a half inches.
“My God, woman, I don’t know what got into you last night, but I like it,” he’d said, staring down at me lovingly. “I thought you were going to rip the skin clean off my back.”
“Don’t apologise darling, there’s nothing like being married to a wild sex cat to make a man float through the day singing and dancing.”
Once I even considered going to church and confessing all. But a bunch of ‘Our Fathers’ and a few dozen ‘Hail Marys’ wasn’t going to cure me of the lust and need that was consuming me.
The car roared into life as I turned the key, the engine echoing loudly in the cavernous, subterranean basement. I headed out of the semi-darkness and into the bright sunlight, my damp underwear on the leather seat beside me.
It was a twenty minute drive. Twenty minutes in which my heart beat faster and faster in my chest; twenty minutes that seemed like an eternity; twenty minutes in which my clitoris set up a buzzing that came near driving me into the back of a weaving white van.
“The door will be open,” his message had said. “Go straight in. Get undressed, and lay face down on the bed. The gag and egg are on the bedside.”
The games had started about three weeks earlier. The only sex toy I’d ever used before was a vibrator.
I’d become accustomed to doing as he asked without question, and willingly using the toys he’d produced from a drawer in his bedroom closet.
The little purple egg was where he’d said, along with the remote control, and the red ball-gag, with its black leather strap.
It only took a few minutes to strip, put the ball in my mouth, buckle the strap behind my head and insert the egg into my vagina, turn it on, laying face down on the bed.
Twenty-two minutes had passed before I heard the bedroom door open and close and the sound of his steps on the carpet. He stood for a few minutes watching me writhe and squirm.
His belt rattled as he started undressing; the sound of his zipper; slow folding of his trousers……
The bed dipped slightly as he slid next to me.
His fingers played along the ridge of my spine and down into the crease of my bottom. I felt the tug as he grasped the little external bobble attached to the egg and pulled, slowly dragging it out of me; buzzing and vibrating and wet with my juices.
“Up,” he whispered in my ear.
He was behind me, one hand massaging my bottom, the other sliding between my legs, massaging the slimy lips of my vagina, slowly rubbing my clitoris with the tip of his fingers.
The condom packet rustled as he ripped off the top; then the unmistakeable sound of the plastic sheath being unrolled over his fat shaft. I grasped the sheets and hung on.
We lay on the bed, in each other arms, my head resting on his chest, our bodies flecked with the dew of perspiration.
He’d taken off the gag when he’d turned me over and entered me from the front, pushing my knees up on either side of my head, pinning them there with his hands on my thighs.
“You are different from when we first met,” he said.
“How so, great and wise sage?”
“In how you make love, I mean.”
“And how was that, master?”
“Like an English woman.”
I swallowed. “And…. now?”
“Now, you are more like an Italian prima-donna.”
“Really! Where’s the difference?”
“English ladies are generally submissive and hope to please their lover by just being present, rather than demanding pleasure from him. Where as an Italian woman demands that her lover does everything he can to please her, letting him know that although she is beautiful and delicate, she is also like a wild cat and will rip him to pieces if he pulls out and rolls and over and goes to sleep without satisfying her needs.”
“Was I really such a bad lover?”
He laughed softly, leaned over and kissed me gently on the mouth. “You were not a bad lover – you were shy and submissive, like a virgin on her wedding night.”
“Now…..now, you are a mate who fucks like she’s been in prison for a year, and has just been released.”
“Thanks. My mother would be very proud of her wayward, adulterous daughter.”
“Did you mother ever take a lover?”
“No. At least I don’t think so. Did yours?”
“My father would’ve cut the throat of the man she insulted him with razor.”
“A bit extreme.”
“Sicilian wives are a man’s most closely guarded treasure. To steel even a kiss from a married woman is considered a crime punishable by a bloody death. A wife is her husband’s personal property.”
“And the wayward wife, what is her punishment? Does she usually die too?”
“Sometimes. But sometimes there are other punishments worse than death.”
“Would you kill your wife and her lover if you discovered that she was unfaithful?”
“Yes, of course. Such a sin would be unforgivable. Nothing she could say could mitigate fact that she gave what was mine to another man.”
“Like father like son.”
“Do you find such an admission shocking, Cara Mia?”
“A little, yes. You are here with me, making love to another man’s wife, stealing his property.”
“True. But it’s every man’s duty to guard his own woman. Your husband, I think would not try to take my life if he was to discover that we were lovers.”
“No….. I don’t suppose he would. That is not our way. But that doesn’t make him any less of a man.”
That conversation bothered me for many days. What really concerned me was that I truly believed that he was capable of slaughtering his wife and her lover if she was unfaithful.
“Such a sin would be unforgivable,” he’d said.
How then did he view me and the other married women he’d made love to? As unpardonable sluts? Women whose husbands were unable to guard their chastity, and who would be unwilling to seek the proper revenge if they discovered their wives infidelity?
He would use our bodies, taking and giving pleasure, but he could never really respect us as people.
In reality, I had no right to be angry, because that was what I‘d thought of myself. It just seemed more revealing when the words spilled from the mouth of the man who had just been my lover.