The following morning, Alison spent a very long time in the bathroom, not getting ready, but just staring at her reflection, both hands leaning on the sink. She didn't look any different. Well, there were bags under her eyes, but that was because it had been so difficult to sleep. However, even if she did not look it, she felt completely overwhelmed.

She could not shift from her mind the image of kneeling on Tyson's carpet. Her dress around her waist, tits hanging out and drool on her chin with his cock filling her mouth. Why had she felt pride in how well she was blowing him, or a thrill when a reaction made it clear he liked what she was doing?

What did that say about her and who she was? She knew precisely what the parishioners would say. Although just for a moment, she watched her reflection smile back at her.

What had Tyson said?

"Maybe my neighbours have a point. I'll behave on one condition." He paused. "You tell me why you like spying on me so much."

She hadn't told him, but she sure had shown him. Was that the same thing? And what she found amusing was maybe if he did now behave, then the parishioners might think a blowjob was a price worth paying. Or in reality, perhaps they would finally say she had done something well without knowing what she had done to achieve it.

From the bedroom, Timothy called and said he was going to open the church and would be gone for a couple of hours. Alison knew part of the reason she was hiding in the bathroom was to avoid him because when she did see him, the guilt and disgust surfaced, and she struggled to control herself. It was one thing dealing with this on her own, but another when he was near her.

She carefully opened the bathroom door, making sure her husband had actually gone, but anyway, she heard the front door close, so it was certain he had left. Alison stepped out of the bathroom. And there on the side were her binoculars. Those damm things, she thought, and Alison wished she had never bought them. She grabbed them, vowing not to use them or to spy on Tyson again. As she took them, despite trying so hard, she was unable to resist a peek out the window. His garden was empty, Tyson nowhere to be seen, and she scolded herself that the sense of disappointment in not seeing him had to stop.

She thrust the binoculars into her panties drawer and, sitting there, staring back at her was another symbol of her treachery. Tyson's front door keys. Why had she taken them? She had no idea. It wasn't like she was going back. How was she going to return them? Alison was too scared of bumping into Tyson to put them through his letterbox. Obviously, she could not throw them away, so for now they would have to stay hidden. At least they were safe there; Timothy would not look in her underwear drawer.

The words "Keep the keys, I think you are going to need them," were seared into her brain, and the excitement at that idea really did not help in getting her head straight.

Focus! Make yourself busy! That was the key, she decided. For a start, Timothy was off on retreat tonight, so she needed to get things sorted for him. Then there was the mum and toddler coffee morning to try and inject some life into, and then she needed some more ideas for the church fete, which was only a month away. Really, though, she was now thinking of Timothy. He was such a baby; he needed a mother more than a wife, especially when travelling. She was entering into the dangerous ground of comparing him to Tyson. The ultimate alpha male who travelled the world boxing. Sort your husband's things out, she told herself. Then sort yourself out.

It had been very stressful, but at least it had been distracting. Timothy's car finally pulled away, and he headed off to his retreat. A bunch of men sitting in silence for twenty-four hours, she scoffed, but Alison did feel a little better; she had done the duties of a good vicar's wife, and that was a start. She smiled at the sound of a crunch of gears and an engine being revved hard. That was her Timothy.

At that moment, her phone rang. Not really concentrating, she pulled it from her pocket and answered it.

"I hear your husband's away for the night," the voice said. She knew immediately it was Tyson.

She almost dropped her phone. An urge to immediately hang up, fought in her brain with the ridiculous sense that this would be rude, but curiosity, excitement, or some deeper, darker thought meant her finger pulled back from the little red button on the screen.

"I--yes, he's, he's gone to St. Gabriel's for a retreat," Alison heard herself say. Why the hell was she explaining? And she was talking much too loudly for someone standing outside. So as she listened, she fled inside and, with a sigh, closed the door with her back pressed against it.

"Good," Tyson said. His voice carried a smug, intimate rumble. She pictured his mouth twisted in a crooked smile.

"You've got my keys. Come over," he said, making it clear this was no request.

When Alison didn't respond, he added, "Wear something nice. You've got thirty minutes."

The line went dead before she could say anything, leaving her standing in the middle of the kitchen. Tyson's words. Come over! Wear something nice! Thirty minutes! Whirling around her head. Alison put the phone down, hands trembling, and she stared out at the garden. It was bright; the grass was clipped short and glistening from the morning's dew. The hedge cast a long, neat shadow. Everything looked so normal.

Moments later, she found herself in the bedroom, rifling through the rails. The only "nice" thing she owned, which was even remotely close, was a thin cotton dress, navy blue, that was knee-length. It was buried at the back, unworn since. Well, shortly after they moved here. She slipped it on. Added tights and flat shoes, and then fiddled with her hair and make-up. Settling on a ponytail and some light touches of blusher. Alison found she was very conscious of the fact that he had given her thirty minutes. She knew that was stupid, pandering to him, but she grabbed her coat and the keys and headed out.

Part two

Twenty-nine minutes later, she let herself into Tyson's house and found him sitting, waiting for her in the lounge. On the way, she dropped the keys into a bowl on the side, vowing she would leave them there.

He stood as she entered and then helped her out of her coat. She had been rehearsing what she would say to him, how she would end it, but this act caught her off balance, especially when his fingers brushed her neck.

He stepped back and tossed the coat carelessly on the side.

"Tyson," she said.

"Tights?" He said disapprovingly, "No, no, no! Take them off."

She stood a moment, legs rigid, her brain processing. She watched his gaze slip to her hem, and he gave a slow, deliberate nod. She reached down and pinched the navy dress above her knees. She rolled the tights downward, awkwardly, cursing herself for having chosen the thickest pair she owned. They clung to her shins. She had to bend, balancing on one foot then the other, exposing a pale wedge of thigh with each movement. The air in the room was cool against her bare legs.

"Better," Tyson said, "And the shoes. I'd prefer you in heels."

She hesitated, but took them off too, stacking them beside the door. Her toes curled in the plush carpet. This was all wrong, but she couldn't stop. She told herself she was doing this to return the keys, to end things, but her body betrayed her: cheeks hot, pulse feathering in her neck. She clasped her hands in front of her.

He motioned for her to lift the skirt of her dress, and when she did, he asked

"Why do you hide the best legs in the village?"

Alison could not answer. She simply stood there while Tyson walked up to her and took her hand as he walked past. Her legs were glued to the spot as her arm extended further, and it was only when it could go no further that she turned and followed. He led her calmly upstairs to his bedroom as her heart raced and she tried to remember that she had come to give back the keys and leave.

"I--" she began, wanting to say no, or stop, or something to halt the way things were happening so fast, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, she let her arms fall to her sides as Tyson unzipped her dress, and it fell to the floor, and a moment later, her bra did the same. This time, he at least had unclipped it, she thought.

"Sit," he said, meaning the large sofa that was in the middle of the bedroom.

She sat as told. The sofa's cushions were deep, old leather, giving under her and then resisting. The room was full of daylight, sharp and clinical, highlighting every imperfection on her stomach and thighs. She folded her hands over her lap, aware of the pink spreading from her chest up to her jaw. But he was immediately beside her, placing one of her legs across his and then stroking the inside of her thigh with one hand while the other held her head as he kissed her deeply. There had maybe been a couple of kisses the first time; she wasn't sure, but this was different; it was a proper kiss.

His tongue was insistent and searching, his hands never still. Alison's mind flickered with a mutiny of conflicting thoughts: how she should put a stop to this, how she had come only to return the keys, how the burn of his palm on her bare thigh made her stomach lurch with desire and shame. She thought of Timothy, always so gentle with his touches, careful as if she were made of glass, and tried to recall how that had ever satisfied her.

Of course, it never had.

Tyson's hands roamed and wandered, rough and effortless, exploring every inch of her. He pressed her shoulders back against the sofa and lowered his face to her breasts, taking one nipple between his lips and tugging until it tingled and ached. She felt herself arch up to meet him, her hand reaching for his hair before she could stop it. He laughed into her skin, a deep sound that vibrated through the soft flesh of her chest.

Did he guess what she had come to do and was laughing at so easy a victory?

That thought disappeared as his mouth travelled lower, his stubble scraping a path down her ribs and stomach, and Alison flinched, half wanting to squirm away, half wanting to push his head down further. He paused at the curve of her hip, looking up at her with those infuriating, bottomless eyes, and then ran his tongue the length of her inner thigh. She clapped a hand to her mouth to muffle the involuntary noise that escaped when he buried his face between her legs.

She had never imagined it could be like this, not even in her most shameful fantasies. Not the way he teased, flicking his tongue and then pulling away. He played her body like a virtuoso playing a musical instrument. His tongue and fingers moving in perfect unison, teasing her so that not only did an orgasm build inside her, but he enlarged it, drew it out until when it exploded it robbed her of all her senses. For a moment, Alison thought she might pass out, and she grabbed for Tyson. Tyson turned her and brought her into a hug that made her instantly feel safe and insignificant. Sensations she needed, even if they came from the man who had the potential to destroy her entire life.

It was all too much. She began to weep. She wasn't sure why, but Tyson seemed to expect it or at least be okay with her emotional outburst. Of course, she knew why. It was everything, right back to the disappointment of her wedding night, her stressful move to this village, and what she saw as her failure as a wife. A leader of the church and community, and now the most cataclysmic failure of all. Adultery!

Tyson was gently telling her to cry. No man or woman, for that matter, had ever done that to her before. It was always "don't cry," but his permission was what she needed. Curious when he was so demanding he still knew the right thing to do. God, it was so overwhelming. She cried for a while, and he lay there letting her. Suddenly, though, need surged up inside her. Alison's mouth frantically searched for his, and when she found it. She kissed him with an intensity she didn't know she possessed.

"Fuck me," she whispered. "I want you inside me."

Tyson smiled and didn't hesitate. He bent her forward against the arm of the sofa, sliding his hands beneath her knees to lever her legs wide. She glanced at the window, shocked by the daylight: a clear view to the back garden, her own kitchen across the fence, the possibility of parishioners on their errands. Outside, everyone was going about their normal days, and here she was on her back, naked, about to be fucked by her neighbour while her husband was away.

But it was all a distant, blurry threat, and her need was greater than everything else. There was only the soft creak of the sofa as Tyson leaned over her, arranging her like a doll, gripping her hips. He was already hard, and her body, traitorous and eager, responded eagerly to the way he pressed against her.

"Should I use a condom?" He asked, pausing suddenly.

Alison nearly screamed with frustration. She nodded and prayed he would be quick in finding one. He didn't really need to. She was on birth control; even if at home, the need for it was limited. A condom appeared from somewhere; Tyson swiftly unwrapped it and moved back into position.

He lay her flat on her back, legs wide apart, and Alison told herself to relax and not think about anything. His cock slipped easily inside. The breadth of his dick was a brief shock, but her body seemed to easily adjust. What took her breath away was how deep he slid into her. His cock was so long. Finally, he stopped and then withdrew so slowly, filling her insides with such intense pleasure. His dick slipped from her pussy, but immediately entered her again. She twisted her hips slightly, lifting her legs to ease his access.

She looked at him with eyes glazing over.

"You're so fucking tight, baby," he said, but regardless, Tyson immediately began to thrust his hips faster.

"You like that, baby?" he asked. "You like a big juicy cock fucking you?"

Alison didn't answer. She was afraid of what her voice would sound like. Instead, her hands grabbed at the sofa, trying to steady herself. Every movement of his cock inside her was so amazing. She had no idea it could feel like this. The world narrowed to the place where their bodies fitted together, to the strong grip of his hands on her thighs, to the ecstasy when he pushed deep and she didn't think he would ever stop. She swore to herself and hated herself for using crude language. She hated him for how good he made her feel. He slowed, rolled his hips in slow circles, and watched her face, a cruel, expectant smile flickering as she lost control and came again.

"Put your hands around my neck," he said, and when she did, he lifted her, spun her around, and sat her down on his lap. Alison placed her hands on his shoulder, and she began to bounce up and down. He lifted her so his dick slipped out, and then he put her back down onto it again, making her gasp.

"You like that?" He asked.

Tyson did not wait for an answer; he just did it again, then again.

She gripped his neck hard, afraid she might fall. Her knees trembled. She wanted to curse him, hit him, but instead she braced her feet against the cold, creased leather and bounced on his lap.

"You're so fucking deep," she moaned. He let her set the pace for a few seconds, then seized her ass with both hands and made her move how he wanted. It felt so wrong, but it was also the best, most intense thing she had ever felt in her life.

He was relentless. If she tried to slow down, he bounced her harder. When she tried to stop, he held her in place and thrust upward until she uttered a tiny, mortifying squeal. His mouth pressed to her throat, nipped at her ear. She bit her lip to keep from making any more noises, but he seemed to know exactly when she was close again, and he would whisper,

"Come on, baby. That's it. Come all over my cock."

She hated him for the way her body obeyed. She hated herself for how much she wanted it.

The aftershocks left her limp and dizzy. She collapsed against his chest, boneless, as he fucked her with slow, lazy, deep thrusts. The room was spinning, and she had the sense that she might faint, but Tyson's hands were steady on her body, holding her exactly where he wanted her, and so she stayed there, unable to move or even think.

She watched as his face above her was creased with concentration before it finally changed to a look of pure ecstasy, and she felt him twitch inside her.

A moment later, his head lowered, and he took a long, slow suck of her right breast and then pushed her off and stood up, leaving her sprawled and panting on the sofa. She watched him slip off the condom with deliberate, casual movements, and he walked naked over to the bin and threw it away.

"Time for a shower," he said, and he stretched and left. Just as before, a moment later, the upstairs shower kicked into life.

Alison was unsure what to do. Should she follow or leave? Summoning all her strength and channelling her anger at how he was treating her. She quickly dressed, not caring how dishevelled she looked, and then she marched out, deliberately leaving her keys behind.

This had to stop.