Part One

The polite chatter of the fete, the smell of cut grass, felt like a different world. Yesterday, David Warwick had been fucking her ass for the third time. Now she was expected to smile and inspect the cakes on the stall in front of her.

“An obedient slut.” The words drifted through her head, and a familiar heat coiled low in her belly.

Her anxiety wasn’t just about Tyson. His demands had kept her so busy that she’d missed the last two fete planning meetings. She caught the eye of a woman from the committee, who offered a thin smile before turning away to whisper to her friend. “Too young, too pretty.” She knew the words they used. They were probably relieved she hadn’t interfered with their precious bunting and jam recipes.

Alison heard Margaret Holt’s loud voice before she saw her. That was how things tended to happen around Mrs Holt. It was not exactly Christian, but Alison considered the woman repugnant and the self-elected leader of the “anti-her” movement.

But that was not why Alison froze when she turned the corner, and the fearsome Margaret Holt came into view.

“And of course you know Mrs Townsend,” said Mrs Holt’s booming voice.

Tyson was standing chatting to Mrs Holt, and now they were both looking at Alison. She did not even know he was back. What the hell was he doing at the fete? Surely, fêtes were not Tyson Handcock’s kind of thing.

After a well-timed pause, Margaret Holt piled on the embarrassment.

“You won’t know, dear,” she said with maximum sarcasm, “but darling Mr Handcock here has agreed to open our little event.”

Tyson gave her a slow, deliberate smile, the kind that said he knew exactly how awkward she was feeling.

“You know, Margaret,” Tyson said, his eyes fixed on Alison’s. “It was Mrs Townsend here who taught me the error of my ways. I obviously made a complete nuisance of myself with the fast driving and the loud parties. So opening the fête is the least I can do."

“Oh, Mr Handcock, I do think, and I know most people agree with me, that your fun should never have been curtailed,” Mrs Holt replied. Alison’s nails dug into her palms, but she was beyond noticing the pain. She watched the vile woman wander away, sensing her satisfaction at Alison having suffered another defeat. Then, the anxiety hit: she was now alone with Tyson.

“So how is my favourite vicar’s wife?” Tyson asked when they were alone.

She hated how her heart started beating faster at that comment. She wanted to fire back something sharp, remind him he didn’t get to act familiar in public, but the smile in his eyes said he already knew what she was thinking, and it was pointless.

“I’m very well, thank you,” she replied, striving to sound casual.

“I hear your sessions with David had gone well,” he added. Alison gasped as she felt herself going red.

“You absolute jerk,” she said, quietly, so only Tyson could hear.

He watched her with that long, lazy amusement she knew too well.

“You look good,” he said. “Have you missed me?”

She stared at him, then at the battered wooden trestle tables and bunting and the swarm of children already sticky with syrup.

“You’re such a jerk,” she repeated, all the force and venom she had stored up from Mrs Holt now poured into her words. “You disappear. I didn’t even know you were back, and you send me to strangers for training.”

“You just need a good fuck,” Tyson said casually. “Let’s go behind the beer tent.”

“Fuck you,” she said, barely above a whisper, then fixing a smile on her face for the benefit of the world, she walked away.

But she could not bring herself to go too far.

She stood and watched as Mrs Holt fawned over Tyson, introducing him as “our celebratory guest.” He gave a perfect speech about belonging to the village, about how welcome everyone had made him feel. As he spoke, his eyes found Alison in the crowd, and she felt the familiar heat rise in her cheeks. After he declared the “fete open,” a mob of children and women descended on him, clamouring for selfies and autographs.

Alison marched away, determined to find a stall to help on or a competition to judge anything to keep her busy. For the next two hours, she served in the tea and cakes tent, her body growing tired and her nerves stretched thin. Every few seconds, she scanned the entrance and the tables for a sight of Tyson. A knot of dread and anticipation tightened in her stomach when she did. Did she want to see him? She didn’t know, but the constant vigilance was exhausting.

Then Laura Brown appeared, threading her way through the crowd. A jolt of guilt went through Alison. They weren’t close; their only connection was Laura’s wedding, the only one at the church since Alison arrived. Of course, the guilt was using Laura’s name as a convenient lie to sneak off to fuck Tyson.

“Hi Ali,” Laura said. “I wondered if you fancy a coffee? Monday, at that new café in town?"

Alison hesitated, caught off guard. She hadn’t seen Laura in months. The old her would have said yes and meant it, but now Alison’s first instinct was suspicion.

She tried for a neutral smile.

“Sure,” Alison said. “Yeah, that would be nice. You mean the new place on Market Street?”

They agreed on ten-thirty, and then Alison really did go home. Something made Alison think this was not just a casual coffee. She vainly scanned the field as she left, hoping to spot Tyson, but he was long gone.

Part Two

Laura was already there when Alison arrived, settled in a quiet corner of the nearly empty café. They made small talk about the village, then about married life, until Laura leaned forward slightly, her polite expression gone.

“So,” she said, pausing before adding, “You’re fucking Tyson.”

Alison almost knocked over her coffee.

The words stunned her, blanking her mind so completely that she just stared at Laura, as if waiting for her to laugh or say, “Just kidding.” Laura’s eyes were steady, brown, and oddly gentle, and her mouth was pressed tight, and she simply waited.

Alison tried to think, to assemble a defence from the assembled lies she’d grown used to using. The silence hung so thick Alison expected people at the other tables to look over, but no one did; everyone else was lost in their own conversations.

Alison set down her cup with both hands. Her fingers trembled a little on the rim, and she feared that Laura might hear her nerves.

“How did you—”

But Laura interrupted her. “I didn’t, not really,” she paused and smiled, “Till now.

“I watched you at the fete. Saw the way you looked at him. Your reaction to that awful Holt woman fawning over him and the way you forced yourself to walk away from him.”

Another pause. “It reminded me of me,” Laura said, and when Alison gasped, she added, “Yes, I guessed because I am fucking him too.”

Alison stared, her mind refusing to process the words. She wanted to be appalled, to judge this newly married woman, but she had no right. Questions flooded her thoughts. How long? How often? Did he buy her things, send her for training, too? Before she could voice any of them, Laura began to speak again, as if reading her mind.

“It was right after my wedding,” Laura said, her voice dropping. “I got a puncture. He rescued me, changed the tyre without a word, and got grease all over his hands. I took a cake over the next day to say thank you." Laura met her eyes. “He took the cake, set it on the table, and then just started unbuttoning my blouse. Before I knew it, I was on my knees, sucking his cock.

“You know, I just really like fucking him,” she said to no one in particular. Her hand touched Alison’s. “So your secret is safe with me, and I thought we could be allies and perhaps arrange a treat for our lover’s birthday.”

Alison’s hand hovered over her coffee cup as Laura’s words replayed in her mind. Arranging a treat for their lover’s birthday. Their lover! So Laura was fucking him too, and Laura seemed not jealous, not even particularly put out. She wondered if there were more than just her and Laura.

Alison felt a flare of something like relief that someone else was complicit. Maybe it would be safer this way. She had already used Laura as an alibi without her knowing.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Laura’s fingers were splayed on the table, nails perfectly neat, and Alison imagined those same hands wrapped around Tyson’s cock, guiding it into her mouth. The image was so vivid in her brain she almost flinched. She tried to recall if Laura had ever struck her as the type, but then again, who would think she was “the type.”

She heard herself ask, “A treat? What kind of treat?”

Laura smiled, not coyly, but with a warmth that made Alison uncomfortable. “He’s always wanted two women at once,” she said, as though it were no more complicated than lending a cup of sugar. “I thought we could give him that. Imagine the look on his face when he realises his two gorgeous sluts have discovered each other.”

Alison tried to imagine herself in a room with Tyson and Laura, all three of them naked, the physicality of it. She imagined the way Tyson would arrange them. Her heart raced, and she felt a slick heat between her legs. She waited for the horror, the disgust. It never came.

That was what she had become, wasn’t it? Alison the obedient slut, a woman who could sit across from a near-stranger and calmly listen to her recount the first time Tyson unbuttoned her blouse and she fell to her knees, as if it was a recipe exchange. Alison supposed she ought to feel disgusted with herself, or with Laura, or with Tyson for setting them up like this. But all she felt was a brittle, shivery relief. Someone else knew and was as guilty as she was. Someone just as weak, just as greedy for him, just as hopelessly lost.

Laura pulled a notebook from her purse, suddenly all business. “Timothy’s away the weekend of the 25th, right?”

Alison nodded, stunned into silence as Laura started sketching out logistics—the location, the time, the alibis. She felt like a passenger in her own affair, involved but not truly participating.

Was it possible that this new version of herself could be so cool, so transactional? She didn’t know. She was already picturing the scene: the three of them in some hotel, maybe one of those chain places, a table of drinks, Tyson’s command as simple as ever, “Take off your clothes.” And then it would begin. Alison tried to picture Laura naked. She remembered her from the wedding, shapely and confident in her dress, and felt a flush of intimidation. She felt the blush work its way up her neck, but the wetness between her legs was getting stronger. She wanted to do this; that was the truth.

She wanted to see the look on his face. She wanted to see if he would even be surprised they had discovered each other, or if this was always his endgame.

Part Three

Alison stood looking at her reflection in the bathroom mirror as Laura brushed her hair for her. Then she reached around her and adjusted the cups of Alison’s bra. The sexy lingerie that Laura had selected for Alison covered very little, but still Laura’s hands went lower and adjusted the way her panties sat on her hips. Alison felt a little like a doll, but nonetheless she felt a thrill when they stared at each other in the mirror and smiled.

“You look gorgeous,” Laura said.

"We both do,” replied Alison.

Laura sprayed perfume on both their wrists, then led Alison by the hand to the adjoining bathroom.

“Leave the door open a fraction,” she whispered. “So you can hear everything.” Just as Alison slipped inside, the hotel doorbell rang.

From the bathroom, Alison heard the hotel door click shut.

Then Laura’s voice, bright and warm: “Happy birthday, darling.” A pause, filled by the rustle of clothing and the low murmur of Tyson’s reply, too quiet to make out. Then Laura again, a playful lilt in her tone: “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

Footsteps passed the cupboard, and Laura performed the agreed ritual: getting Tyson seated on the sofa, taking his tie off, and blindfolding him.

Alison could picture it clearly: Laura’s hands moving with practised ease over the hard planes of his chest, her fingers deftly working open the first two buttons of his shirt, exposing the skin beneath.

“No peeking,” she said.

The words were Alison’s signal. She eased the cupboard door open. Her eyes met Laura’s across the room. A quick, nervous flash of understanding before she moved to the sofa. She climbed over its back, her knees sinking into the cushion beside his hips. She could feel the hard ridge of him through his trousers as she settled her weight against him. One of his hands came up and stroked her back, palm broad and warm on her bare skin. With careful fingers, she worked his button and zipper open. She drew him out, heavy and thick in her hand, and bent to take him into her mouth.

The head of Tyson’s cock was hot and velvety against her tongue, and Alison let it fill her mouth, thick and already half-hard. She could taste pre-cum, salty and sharp, as she worked her lips up and down his shaft. Blindfolded, Tyson let out a low chuckle. His hands roamed her body, finding the exposed lace curves of her bra, squeezing her through the fabric, then sliding down to grip her ass. He groaned, giving no sign he knew it was Alison, just letting the sensation take him.

“Happy Birthday, darling,” said Laura, taking off the blindfold.

“Happy Birthday, Tyson,” said Alison, lifting her head. She felt a flicker of shame that what she wanted more than anything in the world right now was for his approval, for a look of shock and delight to flood his face.

“Fuck,” Tyson breathed. As they had rehearsed, Laura moved to the front and gave Alison a long, passionate kiss while she continued to stroke him. “Fuck, yes,” he whispered, his hand coming up to stroke both their asses.

Then they took turns kissing him, Laura going first, but it took only a moment for Tyson to take control.

“Both of you in the bedroom, on your fronts, ready for me.” His voice was low, stripped of any warmth, a command that left no room for hesitation. Laura’s fingers closed around Alison’s wrist, not tenderly but with a firm, guiding pressure, and she pulled her from the sofa. They moved through the doorway into the bedroom, the carpet plush under their bare feet. Without a word, Laura released her hand and lowered herself onto the bed, face down. Alison followed, the black lace of her lingerie cool against the duvet. The door clicked open. Tyson stood there naked.

He started with Laura, feeding his cock into her open mouth three times, in and then out. Then he moved to Alison, the blunt head nudging past her lips, the weight of him heavy on her tongue each time he withdrew. He did it three times before he didn't pull back. He gripped the back of her head and began to fuck her face in earnest, a steady, brutal rhythm that made her eyes water. Then he did the same to Laura, whose choked gasps were muffled by his thrusts.

Back and forth he went till Laura and Alison’s chins were covered in saliva, and then, as he moved to Laura once more, he told Alison to kneel and remove her bra.

She did it as though it were an audition, running her hands up the length of her ribs, feeling the way the lace pressed and pinched her skin, and then lifting the bra over her head in a single, fluid movement.

Beside her, Laura’s head bobbed back and forth in a steady rhythm as Tyson unclipped Laura’s bra, freeing her breasts as well. Both women knelt up, lowering their panties as Tyson’s mouth closed on Alison’s nipple

He switched between them, tasting their skin, alternating between Alison’s breasts and Laura’s. His hands moved, groping at their hips and throats, squeezing, stroking, pulling. Alison’s head pulsed with the rush of being watched, of being appraised and used. No one had ever seen her like this.

Then he lay on his back and guided Alison on top. She was going to be fucked first, and she was delighted. Laura played with her asshole as Tyson guided her up and down, and then, with Laura helping to guide her body, Alison took over and began to ride Tyson.

“You like having both of your obedient sluts fucking you?” asked Laura.

“Yes,” he said. “I fucking love it.”

Alison shivered. She loved the way he said it. She loved his eyes on her, the two of them watching, using her, judging her. She ground her pussy down onto his cock, rolling her hips in slow circles the way she had learned he liked, and a tremor ran through her thighs.

“But what I really want is Alison’s ass,” Tyson said.

Alison’s mouth went dry. She was suddenly, acutely aware of Laura’s gaze flicking over her face, as if gauging her reaction. The cool air moved across Alison’s skin, raising a rash of goosebumps along her upper thighs and arms. Her hands trembled on Tyson’s chest.

This was, after all, what all the training with David was about. But she had not expected that, not today.

“On all fours,” Tyson said. At the same time, Laura reached into her handbag and produced a bottle of lube. A bottle Alison had no idea she’d brought. Clearly, Laura had known exactly what would happen.

She lifted herself off Tyson’s cock, feeling the slickness of her own arousal as she rose. The room blurred for a second, and she balanced herself with one hand on Laura’s shoulder. The blonde brushed a strand of Alison’s hair back and then kissed her just above the ear. Alison shivered.

“On your knees,” Tyson said.

Alison obeyed, sinking between his spread thighs. She saw the way his cock glistened, fat, the head throbbing and flushed. Laura knelt beside her and, without hesitation, licked the shaft from base to tip before coating his huge dick in lube.

Laura worked the lube in with both hands, her strokes practised and unhurried, squeezing and twisting to get complete coverage. Tyson’s breathing changed, a low growl building in his throat.

Alison tried to keep her eyes on the wall, to not think about what was about to happen, but her gaze flicked down. She watched as Laura, so calm and matter-of-fact, slicked her fingers and reached behind Alison. The first touch was cold, a startling contrast to the heat already radiating between her thighs. Laura’s finger traced a slow, deliberate path down the crack of her ass, pausing at her tightest, most forbidden place. Alison’s whole body tensed.

“She’s ready,” Laura said, and Alison heard a note of pride in her voice. “You’ll go slow, right?”

Tyson’s answer was a grunt, but his hands were gentle as he positioned himself behind Alison, one palm on her hip, the other guiding his cock down between the cheeks of her ass. The head pressed against her, slick and insistent. Alison’s breath caught. She wanted this. To show what she had learnt.

The first push was a test, a nudge that met resistance. Tyson paused, pulled back, and pressed again, this time with more lube and a little more force. Laura’s hand never left Alison’s skin; she kneaded the flesh of her thigh, whispered encouragements, told her to breathe, to let it happen. Tyson’s cock stretched her, the pressure building until Alison thought she would snap. Then, with a sudden, searing slip, the head popped inside.

She cried out, the sound muffled by the mattress. The pain was real, but so was the relief, a sense of victory for getting this far. Laura stroked her hair, murmured, “You’re doing so well; just take a second, let him wait.”

Tyson didn’t move. He held himself perfectly still, cock buried just past the ring, his hands bracing Alison’s hips. The burn faded, replaced by a pulsing fullness, an ache that was almost pleasure. It was what she’d trained for. She shuddered, sweat prickling her scalp, and realised she was rocking back against him.

“Do it,” she managed, “Fuck me, Tyson.” Her voice was a ragged whisper. His grip tightened, and he began to move, slow and deliberate, while Laura’s hand found her clit.

Tyson’s rhythm accelerated, his hands bruising on her hips. Laura’s fingers never stopped. The two sensations collided, built, and then Alison was coming, the orgasm more like a seizure than a wave, her body locked up and then broke apart. Tyson kept fucking her through it, and then he withdrew and ordered Laura onto her back.

Laura lay on her back, legs open wide. Seemingly she had done this before. Tyson lubed his cock again and took Laura's ass with an easy, fluid motion. Laura grabbed Alison’s hand down to her clit, expecting Alison to return the favour, it seemed.

Laura's voice filled the room. A sharp, keening cry came from her throat the moment Tyson began fucking her ass. She didn't hold back, didn't try to be demure or polite; she let every sensation translate directly into sound, a raw, unfiltered stream of gasps and moans and broken pleas.

"Oh god, oh fuck, Tyson," she chanted, her voice climbing higher as he sank deeper, inch by thick inch. When he bottomed out, fully seated inside her, she threw her head back and let out a wail that seemed almost primal. "So fucking deep," she sobbed, “it feels so good.” Her hands clawed at the sheets, her whole body shuddering. "Don't stop, don't stop." Each thrust drew a new sound from her, louder than the last, as if he were pulling the pleasure directly from her throat. She begged for more, begged for harder, her voice cracking, breaking, and then returning. There was no shame in it, no restraint, just Laura, utterly undone, screaming her pleasure without a care.

Then it was Alison’s turn again in the same position.

Alison tried to channel Laura's abandon, tried to let the sounds pour out of her the way they had from her friend, but her voice came out different, tentative, breathy, half-swallowed before she reached full volume. When Tyson pushed deeper into her, she gasped, a sharp intake of air that she tried to turn into a moan, but it emerged strangled, caught somewhere between pleasure and the old, ingrained instinct to be quiet, to be good, to not make a scene.

"Oh," she managed, the word breaking in half, and she tried again, forcing out a "fuck" that sounded so wrong to her ears. She wanted to be loud, wanted to beg and scream and demand as Laura had. She wanted to compete to be the best, but her throat tightened around the words, turning them into whimpers, into shuddering exhales. She clawed at the sheets and tried to moan his name, but it came out as a whisper, a desperate "Tyson" which she felt she had to say twice. The pleasure was there, building and burning, but her voice felt trapped. She was caught in the frustrating gap between the wild woman she wanted to be and the vicar's wife she had always been.

Tyson’s grip tightened, and he slammed her down, his cock driving so deep it felt like she’d split. He roared a curse and came inside her, the pulse of it a hot, thick rush that filled her in a way that felt obscene. Alison felt every spasm, every throb, and the wetness that leaked out around the base of his cock as he pumped her full. The sensation made her dizzy. Once again she was his, marked, claimed in a way no one could see, but she would never forget. Tyson slumped over her, sweat dripping on her back, and for a long moment, neither of them moved.

Then Laura, finding a gap, gave Tyson a brief kiss before turning to Alison, her mouth finding hers in a deep, passionate press of lips.

“Did you enjoy that, dirty girl?” she said.

Alison laughed, but it wasn’t really a laugh, more a release of air, a shake of her whole body as the aftershocks trembled through her. She pressed her face to the mattress, conscious of the sweat glueing her hair to her neck. She tried to control her breathing, but the effort almost set her off again.

“Yes,” Alison managed. “God, yes.” She wondered if Laura heard the wobble in her voice.