As Alison had told herself repeatedly, it had to stop!

And stop it appeared to. At least Tyson did not call again, and two weeks slowly passed. What Alison had no idea of was that Tyson was away fighting. He had a two-week camp, followed by the bout. The fight was over in less than three rounds. Tyson connected with a beautiful upper cut, and as usual, no opponent could recover from that. A flurry of punches later, the referee stepped in to save Tyson's opponent from further damage. America's brightest boxing star took another big step towards the big time, and America's new star was ready to come home.

For Alison, things were not quite so smooth. It was hard to concentrate, and when she had sat through two more badly attended mother and baby groups, she cursed her lack of attention to her job. She had meant to sort that group out. The church fete had moved on considerably, but that was more because the committee took it from her and got on with it. Once again, she sensed disapproval at her performance, and no one had even mentioned Tyson, even though, to her knowledge, there had been no parties or fast driving. Unlike the other villagers who knew everything, Alison did not realise Tyson was away.

Alison was sitting moodily, eating pasta with Timothy. He was buried in his sermon, reading, checking and rewriting. She began to think that anything would be better than this boredom when her phone rang. Her heart leapt with excitement. Cursing her reaction, she managed to control herself enough to check the number, and then, when she saw it was Tyson, to hang up.

"This has to stop!" She said under her breath

"Who was that?" asked Timothy casually.

"Wrong number," she said far too quickly, praying she was not going red.

Then the phone rang again.

Timothy frowned.

"Would you like me to see who it is?" He said.

"No, no," Alison said. "I'll get it." Staring hard at Timothy, who thankfully was back concentrating on his sermon, she carefully and as neutrally as she could said.

"Hello!"

"I'm back, and I want to fuck you," Tyson said.

She hung up, her face burning, sure Timothy would hear the echo of those words through the plastic of her phone. But he didn't look up from his papers, just kept tweaking his sermon, occasionally muttering and reaching for another forkful of penne.

"Who was that?" asked Timothy again

"Like I said, wrong number," she repeated, and thankfully, all she got was a distracted "oh" in response.

Again, the phone rang. She answered it before her husband could comment.

"If you hang up on me again, I'll just keep calling back," Tyson said. "Or I could come get you."

"Laura!" Alison said. "How are you?"

Pretending it was Laura Brown calling was not a brilliant idea. In the instant Alison had to decide, it was her only idea. Laura and Alison were not really friends, more acquaintances. Laura had been born in the village, and her family were keen members of the church. In fact, Laura's wedding at the church had been the only one in Alison's time. What Alison was fairly confident of was that Timothy and Laura did not speak. Anyway, if he knew Laura was having problems and she was dealing with it, she did not think he would interfere unless Alison asked him to. It wasn't ideal, but she had had to think fast.

This had to stop, came to her mind again.

"So, the husband's home?" Tyson said. "Very smart, Alison. I need you to come right now. Get that gorgeous butt of yours over here. I am getting impatient. I want to screw you right now."

"No, that's impossible," Alison said, hoping Timothy would register what she was saying.

"Thirty minutes at my place. Since you forgot to take your keys last time, I'll leave the door open."

"No, I really can't," replied Alison.

"I'll keep calling till you say yes," Tyson said.

"Laura, I can't," Alison said.

"Ok, I'll come get you then," said Tyson. "You can introduce me to hubby."

"No, well, okay, I'll see what I can do," Alison said, stammering now, certain she was going red and that Timothy was listening even if he seemed focused on his sermon.

"Thirty minutes," Tyson said, and he was gone.

"Was that Laura Brown?" Asked Timothy, looking up and worrying Alison about what he had and hadn't heard, even though he seemed relaxed.

Alison's mouth was desert-dry. She shoved a forkful of cold pasta in as a stalling tactic, then chewed and swallowed without tasting anything.

"Yeah," she said, keeping her eyes on the wilted salad in front of her. "Laura's just... there's some kind of thing going on at home. Nothing serious."

Timothy looked up, concern in his watery blue eyes. "Is she all right? Should I pop round, or give her husband a ring?"

"No! No, it's..." Alison searched for a plausible reason. "Girl stuff, I think. She just needs someone to talk to."

He nodded, accepting this at face value, and returned to his sermon.

"Then you should go to her," Timothy said. "It's the right thing to do."

Alison pushed her meal away, stood up, and scraped her plate. Her mind was racing.

"Go," said Timothy, "my sermon is done. I'll clear up."

So Alison lamely nodded.

"Ok," she said

In the mirror by the stairs, she caught her own reflection and saw the guilt radiate off her in waves, but still she let herself out. However, she then froze and went back into the house.

"Need the car keys," she said, shamefaced.

"What are you like?" said Timothy

Laura's house was a drive away. Tyson's was not. So if she was going to get away with this, she needed to take the car. Her mind raced as she tried to think what to do. Lying was so hard. She managed to stash the car down a cul-de-sac that backed onto some open fields. Everyone knew the vicar's car, but hopefully they would think that one or both of them were out for a walk. There was a neat little cut through to the other side of Tyson's house, which she took. Her anger began to boil over at the stupid risk he had made her take.

This really had to stop.

Part two

Tights! The fact that she was wearing tights popped into Alison's head as she stepped into Tyson's house. At least the door was open, so she could slip inside, reducing the chance of being seen.

"Right on time. I like that!" Tyson said as he appeared beside her in the hall.

He was dressed in a T-shirt and shorts and little else, smelling of aftershave and something peppery. Alison didn't bother with pleasantries. She shut the door behind her, the sound sharp in the empty house.

"You shouldn't have called," she hissed. "My husband was right there."

He laughed, lifted her hand and dropped the keys into it.

"Don't forget these again," he said, and with a smile, he pushed her against the wall and kissed her.

"I missed you," he said.

Alison's lips tingled from his touch. He pressed her harder into the wall, hands squeezing her hips until she could hardly breathe. Tyson's mouth was hot and insistent, teeth grazing her lower lip as if daring her to resist. She stunned herself by kissing him back, biting his lip in return.

She dropped the keys into the pocket of her dress.

"I told you, this has to stop," she managed, voice thin and trembling.

He kissed her again, with a ferocity that took her breath away. His hands were everywhere, one snaking under her dress, the other pinning her shoulder to the plaster. His thigh slipped between hers, hiking her up until her toes barely brushed the ground. The wall vibrated with every heartbeat.

"And I told you not to wear tights," he said.

"Tyson, please," she said.

"Upstairs bathroom," he replied. "Go put on the outfit I bought for you and wait for me on the bed."

She wanted to say something biting, something that would slice through the atmosphere and make him see her as a person, not a thing to be summoned and dressed up. But her mouth was dry and her tongue clumsy.

"I'm not--" she started, but when he placed a finger on her lips, she stopped.

"This is getting tiresome," he said. "You know why you are here. So stop fucking about. Either leave and drop the keys into the bowl so I can give them to someone else, or do as you are told. "

Outfit, bathroom, now," he rattled off, and to Alison's amazement, he turned and walked away.

Alison stood in the hall, stunned, her hand closed tightly around Tyson's keys in the pocket of her dress. For a moment, she was going to leave, but only for a moment. To walk out, drop the bloody keys in the bowl, and never return. However, deep in her heart, she knew she would stay, and she cursed the fact that she was sure Tyson did too. The memory of his mouth on hers, hot and reckless, had already ignited something deep and raw. Sure, it made her panic; she was sweating under her coat, heart hammering. But it was also why she was staying and would do his bidding.

A picture of life without Tyson had loomed up in front of her, and the idea that she would never feel this level of excitement and fear held her in place.

She moved mechanically upstairs, unsure if her legs were moving of their own accord or if she was controlling them.

He had called it an outfit, but inside the bathroom was only a very sexy bodysuit, strappy and made of black lace. It had underwire cups and was made from a beautiful, floral lace material. Then she gasped as she saw the heels, a pair of black stiletto heels with open toes. The heel was so high she worried if she would be able to stand in them.

She nervously removed her dress, tights, and the plain, boring underwear she had on. Then she began to dress in her outfit. For a few moments, she wandered around his bedroom. The words "wait for me on the bed" repeated in her head. Then she heard him coming, and she jumped onto the bed. Unsure of how to sit, she settled for kneeling.

"There you are," he said, standing in the doorway, a look of admiration on his face. "Do you like your gift?"

Alison didn't know how to answer. She should hate this, the scratch of lace on her skin, the exposure, the humiliation of being dressed like this and waiting to be appraised. The vicar's wife, a parody of desire, trussed up and trembling on the bed. But she didn't hate it. Not at all.

"Shake your hair out," he said. "Let it hang loose."

Alison obeyed, fingers shaking as she ran them through her hair, letting it tumble wild around her shoulders and down her back. She tried to imagine she was still wearing a cardigan, something to buffer her vulnerability. Her scalp tingled in anticipation, as if even her hair could feel Tyson's gaze crawling over every inch. He smiled, a slow, dangerous smile, closing the bedroom door behind him and then sitting beside her.

"Do you like your gift?" he repeated, using his hand to adjust her hair a little bit. "I think you look amazing."

She mumbled something in reply, but she wasn't sure if the sound even left her throat.

"I'll take that as a yes," he said. "Let's see those wonderful tits."

Tyson stood up and stripped off his T-shirt and shorts, watching her obey him. His cock's massive size still shocked her.

He stood there, cock growing heavy and thick in his hand, watching as she let the lace cups fall open. Her breasts felt hot under his gaze. She tried to cover them, but there was nowhere to hide. He approached, tsked, and flicked her arms away as he climbed onto the bed, then pressed his mouth to hers, guiding the hand he had pushed away onto his cock.

God, why does he have to kiss so well, she thought as she tried to focus through the confused haze in her head on stroking that dick of his.

"Suck my dick," he said in that tone that managed to convey disinterest whilst sounding like a command.

Alison knelt forward, tits hanging out, and as he held his dick at the right height for her, she slipped it between her lips.

She let her jaw drop open and took him in, the taste and smell filling her nose and mouth, sharp and musky and electric. It was impossible not to compare this to the first time, how much less shocked she felt and how much more right it seemed. He kept a hand tangled in her hair, not holding tight but reminding her who was in charge. When she let her tongue flick along the underside, he groaned, and his grip tightened on her scalp. The praise was wordless, but it delighted her.

At one point, he pulled her up, wiped drool off her chin with his thumb, and looked her dead in the eye.

"You fucking love this, don't you? He said.

She could have laughed or cried at that, but instead she nodded, softly, not trusting her voice.

"Now get back to work," he said, and pushed her gently back to her knees.

He held himself steady while she bobbed her head, learned his rhythm, and worked to please him. It was all so much easier than before, the fear replaced by an animal compulsion to impress him, to show him she could be good at this, that she wasn't some meek little thing from the vicarage. She squeezed him with her lips, stroked him with her hand, and even dared to let her tongue dance as he reached the back of her throat.

"That's it, baby, real slow, look at me with those pretty eyes," he told her softly, his hand on the back of her head.

She knelt there, feeling the mattress tremble with every shallow breath, as he ran his fingers through her hair and gripped a handful at the base of her skull. He controlled the rhythm precisely: not rough, not gentle, just insistent, as if even her head belonged to him now. She tried to look up at him, to find some trace of softness, but he only watched with that infuriating, perfect composure, as if her efforts were a given and the only thing that could happen in this room. She wrapped her tongue around the ridge of his cock and drew it deeper, feeling the stretch of her own lips, the ache in her jaw. Then he pulled her up and kissed her.

His hands roughly squeezed her breasts and nipples as his mouth devoured hers.

"You have the fucking greatest tits," he said.

Alison shivered; goosebumps rose along her arms despite the heavy warmth of the room. He spun her around so her ass faced him, and he tugged the clasp of the bodysuit open, exposing her pussy.

"Can we forget the condom, or do we still have to use one?" He said as though he had been aware all along that she was on birth control.

She could feel her face flush. The idea was reckless, filthy, wrong, and right now, everything she wanted.

"Forget it," she heard herself murmur.

He did not comment, just entered her from behind and began to fuck her so much harder than he had before.

He drove into her in a single motion, so deep she nearly gasped, and then set a pace that shocked her with its immediacy. Tyson bent her forward at the waist, hands gripping her hips, making her arch her back and lift her ass for him. The lace pressed hard against her breasts, and her hair fell around her face, blinding her to everything except the feeling of him inside her. He used her body as if it belonged to him, as if this was the only thing it was ever meant for.

The first time she'd been with him, she'd told herself it was a mistake, never to be repeated. The second time, she might have convinced herself it had been an aberration, a further lapse, but something she could contain. Now, as he fucked her on all fours, her knees bruised by the violent rhythm of his thrusts, she knew she had been kidding herself. She would keep coming back; nothing had ever filled her with this feeling, this sense of being alive and out of control.

He fucked her with brief, brutal snaps of his hips, his dick going so deep it made her gasp. She was only dimly aware of the wet noises, the slap of skin, the way her own breath grew ragged and then raggeder. She got lower and lower as her arms tired trying to support her body, and his relentless thrusting made balancing on the mattress harder and harder. Finally, she fell forward, lying on the mattress, and if she felt this might give some respite, it did not.

This angle allowed him to go even harder and faster as he pinned her arms behind her back and pulled her head back with her hair. Then even Tyson had to pause; lying on top of her, he pushed her hair off her neck and then wrapped his arms around her neck, lifting her head.

"You like being fucked by a real man, don't you?" He whispered to her as his lips pressed against her ear, and to emphasise the point, his hips began to slam into her again, making her head shake like a rag doll.

She did. She loved it. The fact terrified her, but another layer of the deceit stripped away, deepening her acceptance of the truth Tyson was saying. Her skin stung red where he gripped her, her cheek pressed to the pillow, his weight crushing her into the mattress. Alison tried to keep quiet, but every time his cock bottomed out inside her, a little whimper escaped her lips.

Then he was dragging her to the floor, making her kneel in front of him, and again feeding her his cock.

"Tell me what you want me to do to you," he said.

She couldn't say it. Not aloud. He was slowly breaking her walls down, but speaking the truth was still beyond her.

But Tyson waited, smiling, holding the base of his cock and rubbing it against her cheek with gentle, mocking strokes. The pause was unbearable. Her mouth opened, closed. She ducked her head, feeling the heat in her face, the tears stinging behind her eyes.

"You need to be fucked some more?" he asked, but of course, he did not wait for an answer, and of course, she obeyed his command. "Get back on the bed on your back, he said.

As she moved, he moved too, pushing her onto her back and removing her heels. Then he was inside her again, pinning her with a hand around her neck and one gripping her breast. He came down lower, kissing her on the lips, and he fucked her.

"Cross your fucking legs behind my ass," he growled, burying his head into her neck.

Alison's legs locked behind his hips, ankles pressing together, every nerve ending shrieking. Tyson's cock speared her, and she felt her body stretching to receive him, the arch of her back forced by the grip on her throat, the rough twist of his thumb digging under her jaw. She clutched at his shoulders, nails leaving shallow crescents in his skin, and bit her lip to keep from groaning.

"Harder," she heard herself say, barely above a whisper, and he obliged, the slapping of their bodies a steady, accelerating percussion. Her head rolled to one side, and she caught a glimpse in the mirrored wardrobe of herself: hair wild, body trembling, mouth open in a desperate O, and Tyson over her, larger than life, so much bigger than Timothy in every possible way.

He slid a fist under her ass to tilt her, then pounded her again, relentless, until her thighs shook and her calves cramped. A warmth flooded up from the pit of her stomach, and she fought not to thrash, not to scream out, as the orgasm forced itself through her like an electric current. She balled the sheets in her fists, arched off the bed. The pressure in her throat only made the climax sharper, more impossible, more like dying than living.

When she regained some sense of what was happening, Tyson was cuming, too, groaning into her ear, and she felt the pulse of his release inside her, the wetness leaking down her thighs. He stayed there a moment, breathing against her cheek, then rolled off, leaving her splayed and gasping.

"And that," he said with a gasp, "was a real fuck."

Alison felt overwhelmed, not as much as last time. There would be no tears, but she still sought the comfort of those huge arms and muscular chest. Once again, he made her feel safe and insignificant, and she loved that.

"Please don't rush off like you always do," she said softly. When he didn't answer, but didn't move either. She closed her eyes and let the aftermath burn through her. There was nothing left but the sound of the bedside clock, the shallow rattle of her own breath, the ache in her limbs.

"Do you do this with lots of women?" she whispered.