She calls beige… oatmeal, and our walls are beige. Maribel Deschamps preens herself, and I pretend not to notice. Her bangles, thin slivers of gold, silver and platinum, tinkle when she adjusts her flowing locks. I know when a woman makes an effort and maximises her potential. She has a lot of that, elegant and tall… attractive with high-born features made to lure men. Of course, my husband is here, and it is so transparent. She cranes her neck, watching Etienne disappear from view.

As her head turns, I dive back into the sample book of wall coverings.

“So… Madame,” she opines, “I am not correct?”

Honestly, I do not care whether she is or not.

“Etienne likes this one,” I point, “This is what we will have.”

For five months, the ground floor of our house is re-imagined. The living space, the open kitchen, and the vast doors folding out onto the garden. Planks of oak are assembled into a floor, and everything is bespoke, the handbuilt cabinets and all our soft furnishings. Maribel and her team did this, and we are in the final stages of decoration.

She peers down, “Yes, Gold Toile for this long wall, it makes a statement. Your husband has excellent taste. Gerard will be here first thing on Monday morning to start.”

Looking up, Maribel is pursed-lipped and exercises her dominion over me. I return a demure, innocent smile. I am the doting wife, putting her husband’s needs first.

-=-

Clasping the worktop, my knuckles whiten, and the fill of his thick shaft defines the insanity of the moment. This is not love.

My skirt is a belt, and I wore stockings and suspenders for him. When I walked in, I knew he would hear how they rustled. One look, a single leer, and he pounced like a lion onto his prey. It is Monday morning, and my body sings. Each shove is one closer to my demise, and like me, he needs this, too. I am soaked, and his stiff meat is in its new home.

Seeing my reflection in a mirror, bent over the back of the settee, I shake with his lunges. Gerard is strong, muscular, and a brute. He pulled down my panties and penetrated my swollen folds without sentimental kissing or tenderness. Dressed for work, I will be late, and he is the smile on my face when I apologise.

He clatters the cushion of my behind, and my hair gathered in his hand keeps me in place. Twisted panties constrain my ankles as I narrate my pleasure. From muted gasps and soft moans, I cry out these brittle yelps. I should not wear stiletto heels on our new floor. Fuck that; I need this… I crave this.

I want to cast off my clothes. Hell, I want Gerard to use his strength and reduce them to rags. Pushing back to meet his shoves, he grunts. His grasp tightens, asserting himself. The travel of him, thick and swollen, the delicious friction provides peals of hot lightning within. He is almost at the point of exit, and he drives up, slapping my rump. Ploughing my drenched sex, he forces the air from me, delighting my body and mind.

“Yes,” I plead, “Fuck me harder…. Harder!”

The buttons of my bodice ping and scatter onto our new floor, and I cry out as my fantasy is realised. With rough hands, Gerard squeezes my quivering breasts. His scent spices the excitement, and I bay when he captures my hardened nipples.

Staggering and manhandled, he pushes me over the plump, cushioned arm of the settee. Desperate to be filled again, I cry out when he penetrates me. Assaulted by heavier thrusts, Gerard is a rampant hound, and I cannot get enough as his bitch in heat. This resolves my dirtiest thoughts as a helpless tramp constantly craving an animalistic fucking.

Flushed, tensing at the edge of release, I have to plead. I must hear his gruff words ask for it.

“Cum for me, Gerard,” I have to yelp; I am stuffed full.

He pulls me with both hands on my hips, thrusting like a mechanical machine. Hitting that place, my thoughts betray my body as this act betrays my marriage. Gripping for all I am worth, I buckle at the summit, and he will not let go until he takes what he wants.

“Gerard... cum.”

“Inside you?” he rasps.

I am undone. “Yes.”

Groaning, this is the finality of the moment, and my invisible shackles break. The fury of his strength fuses with how I tremble. Everything about my pitiful life falls away; the seething tension releases as a rush of cries on shaking legs. Gerard dispatches a torrent of seed into my unfaithful cunt. Sturdy shoves fulfil my cravings, and I take it deep, inundated and pulsing so fast it outpaces his grunts.

Damp hair is stuck to my face as warm gratification soothes me. Suddenly empty, I know from this second that my hunger for more starts all over again. Gerard’s seed is running from me, trickling down my thigh, falling out and dripping onto the floor. Fuck the floor; it can stay there. I hope Etienne finds it.

My panties slide up my calves and thighs, his hot breath is a caress to my creamy ass cheek, and I feel the texture of his lips there.

“Yes, you should kiss my ass.”

He chuckles, “Anytime.”

Adjusting them, cradling my sex, already they are damp. It will be a sublime feeling all day, full of cum, and the dull echoes of his iron-hard shaft.

-=-

I am Angeline, and this is my lunch hour on Tuesday. I am not hungry.

A soft breeze makes my hair dance, so I adjust it around an ear; I need this Calomine tea to soothe me. I am an unhappy wife… I am an… adultress. Yes, it sits uncomfortably. It was never my plan; I had a romantic soul that dreamt of a soulmate and eternal love. This was too much to ask for, it seems. This is not who I am, and my innocence is lost. A decade ago, I could not wait to discard it, and nostalgia jars my regret. It is a fading echo distant enough to ignore, the last of my morality.

Sipping my tea, the pendulum swings back. I am wronged and boil with the need for vengeance. Etienne brought Maribel into our home as our interior designer. A collection of coy glances over several weeks contained one too many dreamy gazes and wistful smiles. He did not hold out when I asked him. Ask is the wrong word; I was his relentless inquisitor.

Maribel is an ex-girlfriend; he lied by omission, and something more blatant followed that. As they secured this project, she mentioned it to Gerard. Maribel did not reject Etienne’s marriage proposal. In a nutshell, this defines my husband - a veneer of decency over a deceitful core. My emotions are a turbulent sea; I sway, jostled by their peaks and troughs. My intuition is never wrong, and they are fucking each other. Our intimacy was always a feeble stream of affection; now, it is barren and arid.

I am a fool. Etienne returned to what he knew and said his goodbyes to Maribel only with words.

At this café table, the world around me continues, and you might not give me a second glance. I am world-weary because this crisis interrupts my beauty sleep. Perhaps ten years ago, when I was seventeen as an unplucked flower in full bloom. Fresh-faced, lissom, I had a zest for life, all dewy-eyed and chaste.

Now, I sit in a figure-hugging dress; its square-cut front reveals my decolletage and cleavage. It holds my racy curves so well. Blonde-haired, strong sunlight bleaches it into many honeyed tones. My blue eyes were once a picture of demure innocence. Now, they contain knowledge and experience. It is a struggle to conceal how I am haunted by my failing marriage. I choose to look nonplussed and seldom amused.

Clenching my hand into a fist, I cannot accept being a victim. I have spirit and a fire inside flickers into life. Right now, my eyes sear some youthful fresh meat. Leaning forwards to face him, I am a tigress. Overtly admiring him, we share a connivance in a language as old as time. He is handsome; that is all that matters, and I do not care for his thoughts. I want his intent, and it is written all over his face. The idea of something this spontaneous with a total stranger ignites me.

If Gerard served a purpose, he deleted the timid shrew I was.

I know what I must do.

-=-

The Gold Toile is hung across the long wall. I have no opinion, as my fingers feel the ridges of the pattern. The click of my heels resonates, slow, measured, and my gait loosens. I can cast my eyes downwards with a tilt of my jawline. He sits on our new sofa and tries not to look nervous. I am the boldest and most assertive creature here.

I will not take to my knees and be servile to that lump at his crotch. I hitch up my skirt past the revealing lace of stocking tops, and my lips curl in amusement.

No panties, his eyes are fixated on the cleft of my sex, a neat line, smooth, and tight pored. I want him to ogle the gap between my thighs and immaculate pelvic floor. It is a beguiling cunt, a powerful cunt, soon to take what I want and to hell with the consequences. Churning with need, my imagination alone arouses me for this sordid act.

His throat hitches, and my eyes are just one of my senses, the only one needed for now. Straddling him, he tries to speak, we have shared so few words, and I want no more. He is Lucien, a Lucien, my Lucien, for this act. A university student without a girlfriend and the perfect foil for my plan.

I press a finger to his lips, “Sit there, do not speak. I will fuck you.”

To my touch, the denim is coarse, perhaps new, he is erect, and I can feel the warm metal fly closed.

“Open your jeans.”

A pinch of my thumb on his dimpled chin keeps his lips there while he fumbles. I plunder his mouth as we push and pull to devour each other. We need to breathe, and our lips are wet as we snort for air. I kiss him as a succubus might drain his soul, and it puts plenty of blood into where I want it most. He is wriggling, yet he does not suffocate; he might later in the throes of passion.

It is in my hand, and I explore it, so eager already and hot to the touch. Wrapping my fingers around Lucien’s shaft, he is adequate for my requirements. His balls are tight, caressing them as my tongue swirls in his mouth, revelling in his whimpers. It is a simple adjustment, a little lower, holding it there, parting my folds, letting my juices soak its juicy head.

My fingers run through his hair and ease his head back. Staring into his eyes, my hips lower, and I scrutinise the nuances of his features. His eyes narrow, and his anxiety vanishes as I ensconce his shaft into my honeyed sex. Watching Lucien with amusement, I smear back and forth. I have him deep, massaging the smooth walls of my sex, squeezing him. When his mouth opens with surprise, my lips and tongue draw out his muffled moans.

His trembling hands take their time to open my blouse. They cannot remove the clasp of my brassiere, so I free them myself. I press his hand to my breast, writhe upwards, and press down to take my fill. He is all I need and purr with contentment. I want him mesmerised and grip the back cushion, lowering my nipple to his mouth.

Yes, nurse it, suck on it as I take what I require.

I know where Meribel is and what she is doing. The café table provided the perfect vantage point. I cry out loud, slithering with liquid hips and praying Lucien has the endurance to placate me.

“Fuck me, you bastard… fucking do me!”

I doubt he will, and I am not a total bitch. I will reward him handsomely for my performative cries. It rouses his response, and I provide the latitude he needs. The slap-slap sound is as urgent as the friction is delightful. Pole upright, my hand caresses his smooth face, so flawless and gifted with the bloom of youth. It is not confidence; he is the embodiment of evolution. He was made to fuck and sire. I admire his naivete, and I can take my own pleasure. Rubbing my fingers there, goading my enflamed clit, it rouses my passionate cries.

“Yes, oh yes! Fuck me, Lucien, make me cum on your cock!”

Behind my eyelids, there is a dark void, yet I can sense someone else. In vivid colour, I plunge for Lucien and take it all. I pull him into my breasts, writhing fast, exorcising my demons with this anonymous fuck.

My husband looks peaky and flushed; there is terror etched in his expression. Lucien cannot see him as I squeeze and goad his swollen shaft. Tight in my clutches, I embody betrayal, and my austere eyes refuse to waver. As Meribel peers over my husband’s shoulder, the sense of revenge is the accelerant. My fingers and that plundering shaft delivers the perfect inspiration. Crying out, revealing my orgasm to them, it is a powerful and severe climax.

The animus drains from me, washed away by a euphoric glow. Lucien’s stifled groans rise, my fingers running through his hair provide consolation in the moment.

“Yes… yes, Lucien. Cum for me. You fucked me so well… do it… do it inside me.”

Held in my embrace, I massage his spewing shaft, purring as it twitches with strength. He is filling me with all the vigour that young men possess.

“Yes, good boy,” I purr, “good boy. I can feel it… ”

Flushed and sexually gratified, I hope my contented smile haunts Etienne for years to come.