"It’s not that bad a journey though. The road is relatively clear, and she’s enjoying herself impressing me with details of their weekend in St Andrews where their youngest is at university. I re-do the calculation of her age - more late than mid 40s, which makes the figure and looks all the more exceptional. She seemed to find me a good audience too; while hubby subsided into silence it only took the merest verbal nod to get her to keep on talking. Fortunately the evisceration of Mr Useless didn’t start in full until we were passing Jacksons Garage, on the last leg towards Morpeth and then onto the dual carriageway.
The house was in one of the older parts of Great Park, back when it was still an aspirational location and an address could reference Gosforth without seeming like a pretence. I’d waited for the third or fourth patronizing reference to my having a tough boss to make me work on a Sunday to tell her I owned the whole shebang. I’m not saying she was impressed, but the tone was warmer, less abrasive. She seemed to be more impressed by people who were self directed than she was by hubby’s existence in the middle management of the Ministry at Longbenton, which may have been a good thing for her. If he’d been the type to have original thoughts, one of them might have involved not being married to her, and how he could bring that about.
You do this when you see people at their worst, or their most stressed. You make assumptions about them. I was making assumptions about them. The idea that he might be happy being treated like shit hadn’t actually entered my head. Instead I concentrated on getting the car back into shape while she gave him direction s about which bag to carry where, each task patiently explained like a parent with a particularly dim child.
Job done, engine running to prove it worked, paperwork ready for signatures, I was offered a coffee. Hubby made it, of course. If I was her I’d have checked to see he hadn;t spat in it, but that only goes to show how little I know. Across the fine bone china, and the small biscuits of a brand I didn't recognise but which didn’t taste cheap she explained that hubby wasn’t just crap with a petrol pump in his hand. His nozzle wasn’t up to much either.
Nozzle. She said nozzle. I did that thing where you wonder if you can laugh out loud and not machine gun the room with crumbs. Apparently, one of hubby’s weaknesses wasn’t just that he was useless in bed, but that he didn’t argue about it.
"
Had I fallen into a late night Channel 4 drama by mistake? Apparently not. She was working up to propositioning me, in front of her hubby, who seemed unruffled by the idea.And me? Did she expect me just to do the nodding dog bit and say yes please? Just because I wore a shirt with the name of my garage on the front rather than a designer monogram? This needed fixing from my point of view.
‘Mrs Parsons, let’s be clear here. I get paid the same irrespective of what happens next. If you want a discount on the excess you have to pay, or to offer me a blow job instead of a tip, you need to be two decades younger. If you want me to fuck you to humiliate him, you have to shut up and let me do what I want, not piss about with patronizing lectures.’
She couldn’t stop herself. The flick of her tongue across her lips was some indication of her thinking, but her words to hubby were for his benefit, not mine.
‘You see Tom? I’m going to have to let him fuck me how he wants because you’re not good enough. Even when you’re fucking useless, you take things away from me, you useless shit.’
Dim the lights, you can guess the rest, as Bryan Ferry once sang. Thank god for the condoms in my wallet, not just handy for keeping electrical components dry in an emergency.
She didn’t actively resist, didn’t struggle, but didn’t join in with gusto until we were well under way. To begin with, when I was lifting her skirt, pulling down her panties, fingering her to check she was wet enough, she was silent. When my cock head went in, when my thighs pushed into her, spreadeagling her face down over the island workbench, she called someone a fucking cunt, but it could have been me, or him. When I tested the entrance to her arse with my thumb, slick with her juices, I’m pretty sure I was the one being called a bastard. I’m definite that was the case when she came, just before I pulled out, adjusted the condom, then decided to go for her arse.
That got me the full lexicon of cunts, bastards and evil fuckers from her. I gave as good as I got. The shudder that went through when I called her a filthy slut who loved being used like a piece of meat told me I was pressing the right buttons. So did the way she gasped and said yes as I pulled her head back by her hair.
Through it all her husband stood there; he only moved when she told him to get his fucking hands on his head, nowhere near his groin.
Eventually I wanted to stop. She was becoming unresponsive, tired, used up. I felt as if I couldn’t do more with her unless I moved her, stripped her, maybe took a belt or a cane to her. My groin said all those things while my brain said ‘not yet, not this time.’
The ending seemed obvious, turning her over, pulling open her blouse and coming on her tits, rubbing my cock over her mouth and cheeks. It wasn’t the first time she’d had that done to her, I suspect, and the little flicks of her tongue at the semen on the corners of her mouth seemed content, happy gestures. If she looked content, hubby looked as if he was about to hyper-ventilate. I guessed that wasn’t the first time for that, either.
It didn’t seem the right time for a post coital chat; I grabbed the paperwork, zipped myself up, made my way out to the Landie.
I was on the A697, heading back towards home, when the screen on the phone clipped to the dashboard came to life. The message was short. It gave me her fuckphone number, her hubby’s work number, and an email address. Underneath, mock ironically, said ‘reply Y to receive future messages, N to stop.’ In the layby just past Heighley Gate I pulled over, typed Y, then switched the phone off and headed on up the road.
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