A Night Out with Monica

I stepped out of the station with my colleague Monica. The tagline under the town's name read: the birthplace of the industrial revolution. I felt like I was walking into a history lesson. Monica glanced at her smartphone then pointed down a desolate high street.

It's fair to say I never like working away, especially in towns like this. northern and industrial. As we began to walk I looked around me at the neo-classical architecture. It would have been an impressive introduction, but the shop fronts were empty or filled with charity shops, fast-food outlets, and bookmakers. There was also the odd pub that looked far from welcoming. It's a town that lives on memories of a golden age. A bit like my mother-in-law

I shouldn't be too critical, my husband is a northerner, proudly so. John was born in a town like this. He always tells me that coming from a place like this gives you soul. That having dirt under your fingernails gives you a healthy perspective on life. An inner drive to better yourself but not to forget your roots.

However, as true as that might be. John wasn't exactly open minded when we first met. I think he had hardly interacted with a minority before he met me. Spending the first year of my life in Turkey, my parents moved to the UK to complete their further studies, Hence, I have lived most my life in London. Truth be told I see myself as a Londoner rather than Turkish.

Luckily for me, we both now live in the south where it's nicer, sunnier with better shopping... Not to mention more diverse. Don't get me wrong, I don't hate the north. Its countryside is to die for. But my home is the south. It always will be.

Monica and I walked to the bottom of the street where we found our town center hotel, a Premier Inn. It was a cheap and cheerful chain hotel which is more like a Hilton in a town like this. I didn't plan on spending the night here. Not that I had told Monica that. I planned to make an excuse after the pitch at the hospital, and catch the last town out of Dodge.

The one good thing about this God awful trip is Monica.

Monica is ten years older than me. She was fast approaching middle age. Not that you'd know it. She is young at heart. She looks like a former glamour model, even if it's one on a downward slope. Tall, blonde, relatively slim with a healthy chest but fighting the crows feet and laughter lines. The office flirt. All the men love her. But so do the women. Basically, Monica is best summed up in four letters. MILF. As John crudely put it

But he had a point.

Not that I'm a lesbian. Far from it. But Monica lightens my day. She's pretty awesome, really. My manager, my mentor, she's even becoming a friend. That's why when she asked me to go on a sales pitch to a client in a far flung provincial town... I jumped at the chance. A girl needs a friend. But since I met John my friend count has dwindled. I'm not complaining. I'm happily married. But Monica gives me a social outlet to express.

But I don't have a child. That's the only thing missing from my life. Me and John had been trying for over two years now. It will happen. I think it's just fate. Maybe when I get my promotion to Product Manager it will happen. I'm sure of it.

Life will work itself out. It always does.


The pitch proved highly successful. More so than we had imagined. Monica took the lead of course. She hammered the buyer until they were putty in her hands. She could sell sand to an Arab or bad weather to a Brit. I backed her up with clean and crisp stats. We sold them a dream and they bought it. They didn't just take the trial of our dementia drugs, they signed up for two years. Two whole years! Head office couldn't believe it until we sent over the paperwork. So shocked, management said we would not just be rewarded through our bonus scheme, but have also been forwarded a hundred pounds to celebrate tonight.

As I said, I had toyed with getting an early train back south. But Monica had other ideas.

Resting on my hotel bed texting John, I heard a knock. I was about to ask who it was when Monica let herself in. Her blonde hair flowed in locks as she stood in the doorway holding a bottle of champagne. Wearing a slim fitting trouser suit over an ivory blouse and high heels she gave me a smile.

"Semra. It's only fair you join me. But we can't talk about work or kids."

"I don't have kids."

"Good point. Of course, you haven't. OK. without me talking of kids, then."

"It's just..."

"You're pregnant?"

"No," I let out a sigh. I was becoming a little too broody for my own good. "Unfortunately not."

"Please. Forgive me for always going on about motherhood. You're still young. Enjoy yourself, there's no rush. I used to be young and fun like you."

"To be honest, I would like to be back home with John."

"What?" Monica arched her trimmed eyebrows in mock shock. "Maybe you're not as young as you look." She offered me a glass. "Now, I know John is a handsome man. But from time to time a girl's gotta let her hair down."

"I know. But..."

Struggling with the cork, she then whooped when it burst free, and quickly poured the champagne into a glass. "A night out is good for the soul. After all, absence makes the heart grow fonder."

"It does. I can see your point. It has been a while since I've been in a bar." I thought for a moment... in fact, it had been years since I had a girly night out. "Maybe, Monica, I've gotten too comfortable spending my Friday nights on the marital couch."

"Then, please? I owe you a drink for earlier. I was good, but my new favourite backed me good and proper. Plus, I've been waiting to take you for a drink. I think me and you will be a hit in the bars, Semra. More so in a town like this. The cougar and her cub. That's what they call it now."

"We're both married."

"Don't worry about that. We're only window shopping."

I chuckled. "Every girl likes window shopping, I suppose."

John was on an evening shift. Even if I got the last train back to London. I would be home alone until seven in the morning. Truth be told, when he gets back he's always a zombie, anyway. "Sure. Count me in."

"That's the spirit, girl."

Me and Monica sat in the restaurant of the hotel. The meal was average and so was the wine. All these hotel chains are the same. Same decor, same smiley service. I swear even the guests are the bloody same. Nothing is ever bad. Just average. 6 out of 10. Like my sex life. Did I just say that? The champagne must be going to my head.

From the covered terrace, we watched the sun dip below the hills as the late afternoon turned into the evening. The champagne flowed. In fact, we were both on our third glass. But I was still with it, just about hanging onto my sober self. I felt it was important to remain on duty. Although Monica was more than friendly I remained conscious of the fact that Monica was my boss. A friendly one, yes. But she was my boss. So I didn't stray too far from the conversation of work. But Monica didn't seem to appreciate the professional chatter.

She glared at me."Semra. Less about the pitch and the office. I asked you out to take my mind off work."

"OK... what's your favourite TV show?"

"I prefer to read. Hey. I got a better topic." With a devilish smile. Monica, asked, "How's the sex life?"

I froze. But knew I had to come up with an answer, A good salesperson should never be caught out with a question. Even an awkward one, no matter how uncomfortable it is. "It's OK." Shit, was that the best answer I could come up with? "I can't complain. I suppose I'm satisfied."

"Jesus. Don't worry, girl. It gets better with age." There was a pause. Then Monica, smirked. "Thought you Hindus invented the Kama Sutra and never stopped fucking... and that's why there's so many of you."

"Excuse me?" Monica's ignorance was part of her charm. And the alcohol seemed to exaggerate this. "I'm not Hindu."

"Muslim? To honest I switch off when it comes to religion."

"Yes." Her conversation was making me wish I had got the last train home. Fucking sex and religion. Will probably discuss politics next. Give me office gossip any day.

"But you dress so sexy, Semra. Not in a slutty way but you're obviously proud of your legs. You always have them out. And I don't blame you, girl. You have real pins."

"Thanks." Compliments. That was one way of making me forget about the casual racism. I glanced down at my crossed legs. It's true, I am proud of my figure. Although at twenty nine it's becoming harder to keep. I do my best to hit the gym twice a week. Even if I spend most of that time gawping at my personal trainer.

"And I've noticed you like the attention of the men in the office. You have them chasing you like they're your entourage, or something."

I smiled, curiously. "You have?" I went to take a sip of champagne but realised I had emptied my flute glass. "It had never occurred to me that I had such a reputation. I mean, I do like the attention of men. But I never thought of myself as a flirt."

"You're a good one."

"Guess I'm not the good girl I thought I was, then. But every girl likes attention. Right? You're just as bad."

"I am." Monica looked surprised as the waiter came to the table, placing two cocktails on our table. She then glanced at me. "Did you order these?"


The waiter gestured to a table of men as he spoke to us. "From the gentlemen at the table in the corner, madam."

"Oh. How lovely." Monica waved and laughed, then blew a kiss at the table of men. Turning to me she muttered. "We will have to go over and give our thanks. After we have finished our drinks, of course."

"I agree." I glanced towards the men, they were a suited bunch of middle aged businessmen. They reminded me a little of my father. All married no doubt. Maybe even divorced. "Shame they're a bit old."

"We can endure them for few minutes." Monica sipped from her cocktail. Tasting her lips, she contemplated the flavour "Peach and lemon. Sex on the beach...if i'm not mistaken. Not since Tenerife have I had that... and the drink, of course."

"You make me laugh."

"So, back to our little conversation earlier. Does your husband know you're a flirt?"

"I've never thought about it." I shrugged as I picked up the cocktail. "I guess he wouldn't mind. He's not the jealous type. Never has been." After taking a sip, I frowned."To be honest, it kinda annoys me. Pisses me off, even." I hardly swear, so the alcohol must be definitely taking its effect.

"Annoys you? Don't be that way. Embrace it. It took three husbands to find me a man who could cope with my flirting. This one positively approves it."


"Men who aren't jealous like confident women. In fact, most like to show them off."

"John certainly likes to show me off."

Monica laughed, then pointed at me while speaking in raised voice. "I knew your John was kinky."

"Keep it down, will you." I tried to sound convincing. "And I have no idea why you would think such a thing about my loving John."

"Tell me he isn't kinky between the sheets."


Monica laughed while once again wagging her finger at me. "Don't deny it. I can see it on your face. Come on. I promise this stays between us. Like sisters. You let me into your world, and I'll let you into mine."

To be honest, I didn't feel like having access to Monica's mind. I imagine it to be a pool of filth. But I felt I had no real choice. I had to work with this woman. And had to stay in her good books. What's the worst that can happen anyway? So, a little reluctantly, I let her into my private life. "Every man has a fetish, right?"

"The interesting ones do. Yes."

" And John's fetish is... " The world moved in slow motion as I divulged deeply private information. But I knew Monica wasn't going to give in until she had every drop out of me. Shit, she was like a detective, or even a bloody interrogator. I continued, "... Well, he had this phase which I indulged him in for a few months. And I'm talking, three years ago or more. Not now."

"Interesting. Go on."

"Well, when we used to make love...to spice things up, after, a while before he let slip the word boring.."

"The beast. A man sure knows how to hurt a woman."

"Yes. It took a while to get over it. But John knew he was wrong, and I could tell felt and instant guilt." My heart fluttered. I took a sip of the cold cocktail to quell my pain. But I still couldn't believe what I was admitting to. "I used to tell him stories. Mostly fake tales of what I had done with men before I met him. It was funny at first, but it soon became tedious for me."

"But I bet it turned him on. Made him very vigorous."

My cheeks burned. I hung my head in shame. "The stories made him like a stallion."

"So. Why stop?"

"He got a bit carried away. He posted personal pictures of me online. He got off on the comments. I was so angry I snapped. A man can't have it both ways."

"Not good. Has he behaved since?"

"Yes. Good as gold... I do a bit of snooping on his laptop to just to make sure he's still behaving." I let out a sigh. " But besides the streams of cuckold videos he's pretty much behaving himself."

"And your current sex life?"

"Maybe I should treat him to few more stories. I do miss getting ravaged."

"Oh... Oh." Monica's face lit up. Became animated as if her puppeteer just woke up. "I have a better idea."

"Why do I have a bad feeling about where this is heading?"

"Don't. This will be great fun for all involved. And you'll definitely not be called boring ever again. We're going to ratchet up the flirting tonight and tease our husbands. Believe me, John will love it. Mine does. After it, you won't have to tell him anymore made up stories. He will have all the inspiration he needs."

"I need to call him, though. To let him know. I don't want to end up divorced."

"No time like the present. Call him."


I went out into the foyer. Paced around while I planned the conversation in my head. It was a practice that rarely paid off as conversations hardly go as planned. I scrolled to his name but hung my finger just above the dial button while I waited for my heart to slow to a decent pace. Then called John. After brief pleasantries, I got to the point. "Monica's husband is like you."

"You mean perfect?"

"She seems to think so."


There was a brief pause while I chewed my lip. But finally, I swallowed my nerves. "What I mean is... he has the same fetish as you."

"You've been talking about me? Our private lives?"

"Me and Monica are very close. We're similar people."

"Semra..." To be fair, John sounded pretty annoyed. As I fear, the conversation wasn't going to plan. John's voice was becoming strained. "I'm not sure if I'm too happy about you sharing stuff like that. It's not exactly normal, is it?"

"That's just it, Monica is actually made up. Because, she's in the same position as me. But she's more experienced. And sometimes treats her husband with stories of her girly night."


"Sexy stories."


Finally, John seemed to be coming on side. "John. What I'm proposing is... And you can veto anything I say. But I will play a little. And tease you with pictures of our adventures with the locals. And...of course you can hear all about it when I get home."

"Just be safe. Don't do anything stupid."

"Don't worry. I'll be in control." A load of voices echoed in the foyer as a group of guests came in off the street. "Listen. I gotta go. Love you."

"Love you."

"Oh... One last thing. I bet you don't think I'm boring now... do you?"

"Hey, come on. I've said I'm sorry about that a thousand times. And I promise. I can't wait for you to come home, safe and sound... but with plenty of inspiration."

"Goodnight, my love." I hung up the phone. Slipping the phone into my handbag I turned then walk back into the restaurant but was met by Monica at the entrance. "Leaving?"

"Yes. Time to go into town. John is cool with it?"


"I knew he would be."

The excitement was growing now. In fact. I felt younger already. I suddenly remembered the men who got us the cocktails. "Mon, I thought we were going to thank those guys for the drinks."

"No bother. The cheeky bastards thought we were prostitutes."

"My God. The cheek."


The air was cool with a sharp breeze. I walked with my arms covering my chest, already regretting not wearing a jacket over my short formal black dress. We walked down a quiet, half lit street of shadows. The bookmakers and charity shops were interspersed by what I would call 'old men' pubs. Not my idea of nightlife.

Undeterred, we headed towards the bright lights and crowds at the foot of the street. At last there seemed to be some real life. But as soon as I built my hopes up, Monica suddenly grabbed my arm and pulled me towards a rough looking pub called the Wheatsheaf.

It was a traditional drinking place with small rooms in every direction. Each room had its own strange characters. The smell of stale ale and a slight hint of piss hung in the air. It soon became pretty clear that I was the only brown girl. In fact, me and Monica were the only two women other than the frumpy barmaid. It felt the eyes of the entire place were on us. I instantly regretted coming in. But Monica didn't, and got stuck into the locals, chatting away as if she had known them her whole life.

Monica ordered our drinks on the company card, and I was soon supping my G&T. But I soon found myself out of favour as Monica got involved in a deep discussion with some brawny looking meat head.

Monica obviously dug the middle age bricklayer she was talking to at the bar. The minutes ticked by slowly. Very slowly, and loneliness soon set in. I rocked on my heels and wondered if the night was a big mistake. For one thing, I was yet to see a good looking guy. The place was populated with misfits and the dregs of society. You see, I like a long sophisticated face. Typical English... according to TV, anyway. Think Hugh Grant or Damien Lewis. But in here it was more Alan Partridge, Mr Bean or Austin Powers.

Then I saw this young guy. He had the air of a student about him as he stepped up to me and introduced himself as Elliot. He was very polite and softly spoken. There was a time in the past when my mum would have approved of Elliot. But there was no interest on my side. He was too young for a start. In fact, he told me he was twenty one - and he may have been. But I had more than a suspicion that Elliot was at the most he was an A-level student. 18 pushing 19, I'd say.

Yet I was glad of his company. Not to be alone in this strange place. He was clearly in awe of me and made me laugh when he called me an ethnic Barbie. Casual racism has its charm in certain circumstances.

My new friend spent every breath to make me laugh or tell me how gorgeous I was. I couldn't help but smile. The least I could do was give him a fake name to hunt down on Facebook when he got home.

Elliot wanted a selfie with me, which I was happy with, as long as I could censor it first. Which I did. After three attempts I finally looked hot enough for him to keep it. I also took my own with him. After putting his arm around my waist for the selfie, he left it to linger and I soon found myself leaning into him as we spoke. It was a nice feeling, I liked the close physical contact of someone new.

Elliot's hand was slowly heading south to my bum. I grabbed it, and tutted. "Excuse me, young man."

"Sorry. I'm a bit drunk."

"You'll find the ideal girl, one day. But it's not me."


Thankfully, before things got awkward between me and Eliot, Monica had tired of the meathead and gestured for me to drink-up. I did just that and kissed Elliot on his cheek. He asked for my number, but I declined and reminded him to add me on Facebook... with the fake name of course. Deep down I think he knew I was bullshitting him. And I felt a little guilty.

I've always hated letting people down. So I stopped at the doorway and ordered Monica to wait. "Shit. I left my lip gloss on the bar." I turned and walked back in.

I stormed through the bar until I found Elliot, grabbed his hands and slapped them on my backside. Leaning forward I forced my lips against his for a sloppy kiss. No tongues, just leaving my mark. Breaking free I purred, "You can wank over that tonight."

"I'm sure I will."

"Goodbye, Elliott."

I turned. And headed out of his life.


As me and Monica walked the cobbled street, I asked, "What happened to the guy at the bar?"

"Nothing. I just felt I could do better. Merely warming myself up. Yours? He seemed young. Barely out of school."

"He was. Nice guy though. He reminded me of the interns at work."

"I thought so. I think you need to go up a level. Play with a bit more experience."

I nodded. But wasn't sure. I liked being in charge.

We finally reached the crowds. There were drunks everywhere, men and women. All worst for wear. Needless to say, police and door staff were kept busy. Monica naturally picked the seediest club for our next adventure.


The club was a meatlocker. Humid, crowded with the hint of sweat and vomit. Not my sort of place. It was also full of northern lasses baring more flesh than you can see in a butcher's window. To be polite, two thirds of them were generously portioned. Big boned would be another description. Or as Monica put it... fat.

After buying a cocktail each, maybe not the best idea, but who's the judge, we made our way across the moodily lit dancefloor. Monica held my hand and gestured around, shouting over the drum and bass. "With your looks, you should have the pick of every man in here."

"You think too highly of me."

"Dance. And watch them come."

And indeed they did. In their droves. Like a herd of cows following the promise of food, craning their necks of have a look at what I had to offer.I enjoyed the attention. Being ogled reminded me of my past as the most popular student. The one every man in class wanted on their arm... or more accurately, on their bed,

We danced to the electronic music which had fortunately slowed a little. It allowed me to move seductively to promote my figure to the punters.

I could see them leering at us, staring at us like dogs. But attention was intoxicating. I guess the mix of alcohol and excitement of reliving my youth made me dance with more vigour, more belief in myself. I didn't just dance, I performed, giving my audience a show. I made each man feel special. I also goaded them to join me. A few did. But they all seemed awkward and soon retreated to the comfort of anonymity amongst the crowd.

Then one man joined me... one gorgeous, confident man. He was tall and broad shouldered. He stood straight like a soldier and stylishly dressed like a married man. His hair was salt and pepper and his face was weathered but kind. He exuded experience as if he lived a good life.

He moved smoothly. His hips swayed like the leaves of a Spanish oak caught in a latin breeze. In fact he outmoved me on dance floor, getting into my personal space. He took my hand and whisked me around, then closed his hands around me from behind, and we slowly rocked together.

He was in control. I didn't mind.

His body felt strong and manly. His hands felt my waist then moved down to my hips. His touch was light but confident, yet never gropy. He knew what he was doing to me. And knew I loved every second of it.

I pushed against him. Felt him push back. Then I ground my arse against his crotch. I was being dirty. Dirtier than I have ever been before. But I felt alive. I wanted more.

I turned around. I needed to see him. Smell him. Taste him. I linked my arms around his waist and pushed my weight against him, burrowing my face into the crux of this man's neck. He spoke. "You dance well."

"Not as good as you do."

He rested his forehead against me. I could feel his clammy skin, but the pheromones made love to my senses. His open hand spread over my buttocks then felt the weight of my cheeks as he asked, "Let's go and find a dark corner and get to know one another personally."

"Best idea I've heard all night." He went to lead me, but I resisted. "One thing first." I pulled out my smartphone. "Quick selfie with my new hunk."

"Not my thing."

"It's part of the deal."

"Fine, then. Fire away."

Quiet and brooding. I like a man who talks in short commanding sentences. I held out my phone while he held me tightly. His hand fitted snugly under my breast. As the timer counted down I inhaled his musky cologne. It's usually me selling dreams, but this time it was me who wanted to buy what he was offering.

He led me through the crowd of disappointed men. But I hardly even noticed them. I only had eyes for him. I had even forgotten about Monica. But i'm sure she was enjoying herself.

We found a private booth. It was dark, almost pitch black. Built for depravity. He sat first then gestured for me to sit on his lap. I giggled like a schoolgirl. "But i'll crush you."

"Behave and sit."

I did just that. He felt hard. Everything was toned and bigger than I used to. John is in shape. Looks after himself. But this guy was an athlete. Actually, I would go as far as to say he was chiselled out of granite. "What's your name, handsome stranger?"


"Handsome name, Blake." I wasn't bothered if it wasn't his real name. But for some reason I wanted him to know mine. Maybe in hope he would remember me. "I'm Semra"

"Kiss me Semra." I didn't hesitate but kissed him lightly, dipping and dabbing my tongue only occasionally. The same way I would do with a fine ice-cream. I wanted to live every minute.

But what started off playful, almost innocent fun began to heat up; ignite, then burn. Blake's free hand stroked my outer thigh. But it then ventured under the hem of my dress, riding high up my thigh. I had always been proud of my thighs. But lately they had started to get a little bit meaty as I turned into my mum. So I felt uncomfortable and trapped his hand with mine. "Easy, boy." I smiled as we kissed some more. "No need to rush."

"Why go slow. I can feel your vibe."

"I'm not single. So only kisses if you don't mind."

"You like me. We shared an energy on that dance floor. When we were together we were on fire. We have to be entwined. Don't deny your feeling for me. I would never dream of denying my feelings for you. They're wild but true. They burn my soul. I know you feel the same way."

Fuck. Blake was a northern poet."Blake... kiss me more." I released his hand and he immediately ventured higher, then rounded my thigh towards my most intimate place.

But this time I didn't protest.

I uncrossed my legs and opened them like a slut, giving Blake full access to my womanhood. It was the only invite he needed. From the outside of my panties he rubbed my clitoris. But he knew what he was doing and manipulated it. I closed my eyes as his fingers worked me.

It wasn't long until I felt my lower half tingle and began grinding on his fingers, begging him to go harder, not to give a fuck and enter me. But Blake didn't. Just kept winding me up like a toy. Coiling my nerves like a spring.

I kissed him harder. Deeper. Pulled at his hair.

My body was boiling over. I straddled him. Begging him to finger fuck me. Finally his fingers were in. Skin on skin. I shivered, writhed and bucked. I was under his complete control. Whatever he asked from me I was ready to give. And more.

My wetness told him everything. I had no secrets. No inhibitions. I was his whore.

I had long lost control of the situation, and now lost control of myself. Blake then began opening me up, fingering me hard with what I felt was two fingers. I held him tight, moaning into his ear. My moans then became screams as I rained lust all over his fingers.

The orgasm came hard, fast. Deep. Wet. But most of all, guilty.

I collapsed on top, rested for a moment as I caught my breath.

I was now thinking of John. I wanted some hard evidence to show how naughty I could be. I took a selfie of me and Blake. My face wet with post orgasmic sweat. Blake looked rugged as the the hills of the north. A northern beauty. Handsome as the heavens. He kissed me. Proud of my work, I took several more.

But I was a mess under my skirt. "I need to clean myself up."

"Come back for more. I will be waiting."

"I will sweetie." I gave Blake one more kiss before climbing off him. As I cut through the crowds I felt unable to walk properly, post orgasm, my knees felt weak and my vagina was soaked and sore.


In the ladies toilet, two of the cubicles were busy. But by the rattling door and husky moans, it sounded like I had finally found Monica. After cleaning myself up I exchanged a few texts with John. I had had my fun, and was now missing him. But I thought I would play the game until the end. I texted him that I was going home... and asked if I should go alone.

Then waited for his reply.

The seconds passed by as if they were minutes. I wanted to be back with Blake. Suddenly the room filled with electronic music as the door back into the club opened. It was Blake.

He didn't say anything. Neither did I. But we both knew what we wanted. Blake grabbed me by the hand then pushed me into the cubical where I fell back onto the toilet, my backside crashing heavily onto the toilet seat.

Blake closed the door behind himself, then wasted no time unzipping his jeans. "Pull it out and suck me. It's my time for me to get some attention."

I couldn't agree more. I reached out, slid my hand into Blake's boxers and immediately felt his impressive girth. Carefully, I unmasked this monster, pulling it out and letting it bob in front of my face. My eyes widened as it was almost twice the size of John's cock. He was circumcised, the purple godhead looking like the bulbous end of an eggplant.

"Give me your tongue."

I smiled then poked out my raspberry tongue.

"Now clean me."

I did as I was told. Licking him clean. I felt his cock pulsating as my tongue swept back and forth. From his circumcised bell to the tips of his hairy sacks. I didn't miss an inch. Excitement coursed through me. I was enjoying being a cocksucking whore.

My phone began to vibrate in my bag. Although I knew it was John, I didn't answer. As I didn't want to risk missing out on the opportunity. I simply leaned forward, opened my mouth and took Blake whole. Or at least I tried. It felt alien to me. Intrusive. I usually do a good job of sucking, not that I have blown anyone recently. But Blake was more than a handful... or a mouthful.

I slurped, choked and gagged. I think Blake knew I was struggling, so he coaxed me with his hands, guiding himself deeper, obviously driven by the sight of my watering eyes. "Look at me bitch."

I did just that. Kept eye contact as he went about stretching my mouth. Although It was far from the most comfortable position, I wanted to please my man.

Blake pushed my face down onto his cock. And kept me there. I couldn't breathe and I felt like my head was about to explode. Plus my nose was buried within his short and curlies - making me want to sneeze.

But then Blake released me. But as I lurched back, gasping for air, he blasted me in the face. I guessed he hadn't wanked for days as he kept cumming. Long jets, criss-crossing my face in a spider web of hot sticky, salty man juice.

"Now take a selfie and send it onto that pervert of a husband."

I had obeyed Blake all night and I wasn't about to stop. So even though my left eye was sealed shut with cum, I reached for my bag. Pulling out my phone, Blake snatched it from me, then sniggered as he began reading my husband's messages.

"Smile like a whore."

One flash. Two flashes. Maybe not a picture to put in the family album.


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