Saturday mornings are very popular and busy in this house. We have a pancake breakfast tradition, usually with a whole pack of hungry sleepover kids joining. I always make double, sometimes triple portions.

Once in a while, when the stars are aligned, I slept at least six hours or some other miracle happens, I whip up waffles instead. Not that they are any more difficult to make but I have a proper American cast iron waffle maker (from the days when they didn’t charge an arm and a leg for a decent-sized suitcase) which is a nightmare to get out of the forgotten corners of the pantry. But I'm not gonna get into a rant about how much I hate these tiny English houses.

I am really bored of pancakes now and I have some clotted cream left over from some fruit scones the other day. So heavy iron comes out and I start getting the double portion prepared but then I realise that I don’t actually know if all of these guest kiddos like waffles, so in the last minute, I decide to just do single and add to the batter at the end if it’s not enough.

The batter comes out runny AF and I just stare at the recipe, wondering what has gone wrong in this multitasking madness. For the life of me, I can't figure out what have I done wrong till I start to cook the first one. Then I remember that I already doubled and whisked the eggs before the change of plans. Great. Of course, it sticks as if I had chucked marshmallows on the griddle. Not a good start. And having the kids barging in every two minutes, asking me when it will be ready doesn’t help.

Just getting going again, scraping the gooey mess out when one of the kids accidentally lets the dogs in. They haven’t been washed after their muddy morning walk and now they are running to the kids, into the living room, jump up the sofa, everything, just the usual chaos. Shouting, screaming, a house upside down, mummy flippin' out.

Breathe!

I put my big girl panties on and get the situation under control. I drag the two mucky monsters back into the mud room, ask the girls to help setting the table, I recruit the youngest to slice bananas and get Nutella and any junk they usually want on their waffles. They’re finally all at the table, eating. All is calm and in order. The hoovering and wiping of muddy paw prints can wait. I have the last few waffles to cook which I will add extra cinnamon to, because that is how I like mine. Mummy comes last, as usual. Sigh.

That’s when hubby emerges, unaware of the battle I just fought, and won! I don’t know if it’s the way he trots down the stairs, the fact that he just came home from Germany after five days, the killer teddy bear hug he gives me from behind with the steaming waffle iron in my face, the way he whispers into my ear, “Hmmm it smells like heaven in here”... But I know he is trouble.

“You want sum’?” I ask. Obviously meaning the waffles. I only left two cinnamon ones for myself, so please say no.

“I was hoping for a different kind of breakfast,” he grunts into my ear pressing a very hard morning wood into my ass.

As much as I want it inside me right there right now, I spin around telling him off, “If you haven’t noticed, the house is packed to the roof with kids.”

“Yeah, the little shits woke me.” It was probably me chasing the dogs out. “Don’t change the subject.” He pins me against the counter, his package in an even more compromising position. He’s smart though, having his favourite loose grey joggers on. I feel him up with a deep wishful sigh.

“I can squeeze in a quick BJ, if you take the girls to practice later.” The cold business woman is still on duty, even on weekends. He shakes his head. Their practice is across town and Saturday afternoon traffic is death on wheels. With four teenage girls in the car, it’s a special corner of hell, especially for a secret introvert he is.

“I just take care of it myself,” he scoffs, knowing full well, that will never ever happen on my watch, I mean at least without me watching.

But I have some bargaining chips too, mister. I get the clotted cream out of the fridge and a tin of peaches. Because his favourite way of having waffles is clotted cream and hot spicy peach compote. He’s spending too much time in Germany if you ask me.

“Deal,” he rolls his eyes.

“I Just have to finish these two.”

After shutting the door between the kitchen and the living room, he’s right behind me watching my every move getting me in a mood that I now want the impossible: more than just a BJ. His cold hand between my hot legs definitely helps his case.

I make sure the kids have enough waffles to last a whole day and a cold war and I tell my oldest to watch the youngest while “mummy takes a shower.”

We let the water run for cover. He loses his joggers in a fraction of a blink of eye. “Fuck, baby, I’ve been waiting for this all week.” He plain and simple shoves his dick in my face.

Hm, strange... I don’t remember him mentioning anything all week. He normally lets me know when he is horny or even demonstrates it on vid. I have an inkling, he is about to explain further, while I take him in my mouth and give him a leisurely mild ride through hungry submissive lips.

But I want him to know that this deal is still a bit lopsided and I will have plans for tonight too. “The girls are staying over at Rosy’s tonight.”

“Really?”

“Uh mm. You will need to pay me back for that waffle, I made those two cinnamon ones for myself.”

“What you’ll get tonight will be better than a waffle with manuka honey and Miyazaki mango.” He grips his cock demonstrating his massive size.

“Better be.” I lick my lips, then the underside of his thick juicy cock with a hard flat tongue.

“So, I was saying...” he continues his ‘story’ – his favourite way to get my attention – “a few days ago, I went to a bar with Mike. Mike, you know, from PR, moustache, funny hat... And we met these two women...”

“Please tell me, that he doesn’t know that we are...” I’m still trying to find the way to label what we are exactly... Swingers? In an open relationship? Something like that. But apparently, people finding it out at his work isn’t what I should be worried about...

“Is that really your biggest concern?”

“Why what should be my biggest concern?” I ask suspicious now, with drool running down my mouth looking up all innocently. If you ask me, I just want his spunk in my mouth before one of the kiddos starts ramming the door. And I kinda know where this story is going. “You will tell me while I’m blowing you, won’t you?”

“So there was these two women sitting at the bar. Mike wanted to hit on them, but oh well, he is rubbish. He was begging me to be his wingman...”

I was slowing to a halt. Now I am100% certain where this is going.

“His German is pretty crap too...” he adds.

“Dein Deutsch ist auch recht sheiße, Süßer,” I cut him off again, plucking his dick out of my mouth with laughter.

“Leck mich, Schatzie”

Fuck, he knows how to twist me back into my sweet-and-willing mold. I love it when he calls me that; he stole it from my dad.

“So what the hell happened? Get to the point, I don’t know how long the kids will last without me...”

“What do you think happened? I couldn’t let him go up to their room on his own they would have torn him to shreds.”

“And you, the ever-considerate workmate... What did you do exactly to help out a friend in need?” At this point, I’m treating him to a slow handjob, thirsty for all the little details and the kinky facial expressions they normally come with while also giving him a ‘you will be so spanked for this later’ look.

“He took one of them into the bedroom. I was left with the blondie.”

“Blondie?”

“Yes, totally your type,” he chuckles. “And she practically begged me to let her blow me.” He looks up to the ceiling feigning innocence.

“I think you’re making shit up. No woman would beg to give you a BJ.”

“Are you sure about that?”

He pulls me back by my hair, his hand now resting on the side of the tub with my hair still in his grip as he kneels down, pinning me into that tiny uncomfortable corner between the bath and the vanity unit. His knee rubs against my wet folds, his peach-tasting fingers invading my mouth. “Open that big mouth of yours, so I can fucking fist it.” His elbow pins my neck against the tiled side of the bath tub.

I am screwed. And so fucking wet. Even without taking a shower.

Four thick fingers are stretching my mouth. “You are lying, you are so hot for my rod,” he laughs into my face while his other hand finds its way into my leggings. “She was, you know,” he growls into my ear. “She fucking worshipped my cock... Beautiful full red lips, eyes like a fallen angel.”

Ok, maybe he’s not making this up.

“And I got her number. So be a fucking good girl and suck me off. Try to do a better job than she did. Or at least a decent one."

I don't do 'decent'. And the position he trapped me in doesn’t give me much choice but to accept his full length.

“We can visit her. Both of us,” he charms while gagging senseless.

I can’t even schedule a hairdresser appointment but yes sure let’s go to Germany. “Is that all you did? Fuck her face?” I cough when he lets me breathe. The smokes of jealousy is trying to escape, no matter how I’m stuffing it back into the double-bolted chest of my willing cuckquean mind.

“Yes, and she swallowed like a good little slut. Will you?”

This cold, restrictive corner he wedged me in, somehow gives him just the perfect position to ram my mouth brutally while fingering me to near-orgasm.

Of course, I’m a good little slut and swallow Every. Single. Drop. I don’t have a choice. And I wouldn’t change it for the world. In fact, I think I will request this kind of shower from now on. The only thing I’d change is maybe have another five minutes and beg him to make me cum too. But he wouldn’t, anyway. He likes me in this state.

“I will chauffeur the girls, you take your shower. Do they have their shit ready?”

“Yeah, just grab the big holdall by the door. I love you,” I smirk. Insecure, unsatisfied me is huffy, still shivering on the cold floor and she’s looking for a speck of affection and gratification. Of course, I wouldn’t love him if he just threw a ‘I love you too’ back.

“Pull yourself together, woman,” he scoffs and sneaks out the creaking bathroom door.

Fuck, I need to digest all that. I run a bath, with half a bag of orange and cinnamon bath salt dumped in it and fetch a huge mug of Bailey’s coffee. I think I made a good deal, I muse drafting up this story.

I have absolutely no idea, whether he was telling the truth. He can be damn convincing and loves winding me up this way but sometimes it’s more than just that.

***

A week later, when I’ve completely forgotten about the whole incident, an incomplete flight booking screenshot lands in my email. “Can your parents have the kids for this weekend, babe?” the message reads. “We can hire a car and drop them off.”