We’ve been together eight years now—me and Liz. Met at sixth-form college in Manchester, survived uni in Leeds, grim shared flats in Salford, and finally a tidy semi-detached in Chorlton-cum-Hardy. She’s the sort who stops traffic without meaning to: long, chestnut waves that tumble over her shoulders, plump lips that smirk like she knows every dirty secret, and a body built for sin. That arse—round, peachy, the kind you want to sink your teeth into—and tits that fill a 34C bra perfectly, nipples stiffening the second you brush them. Sex with Liz has always been volcanic. She’ll straddle me on the sofa, sink down slow until I’m buried to the hilt, then roll her hips like she’s riding the Northern Line at rush hour, her cunt gripping me so tight I see stars.
Lately, though, the signals are off. She’s late home from the agency in Spinningfields, cheeks pink, blouse wrinkled. “Client drinks,” she says, kicking off her heels. But her eyes slide past mine. Her phone pings at weird hours—02:14, 03:07—and she tilts it away. One night she’s in the shower, steam fogging the bathroom mirror, and I flick open her iPhone. Just a glance. A message from “Mark – Agency” glows on the lock screen: “Still tasting you on my tongue. When can I bury my face in that sweet pussy again?”
My stomach lurches. Cheating? Liz? But the twist in my gut isn’t fury—it’s a hot, pulsing throb straight to my cock. I picture her in the disabled loo at the office, skirt rucked up, knickers round her ankles, Mark’s head between her thighs while she bites her fist to stay quiet. I set the phone down, palms sweaty, dick half-hard in my joggers. What the fuck is wrong with me?
That night she pads into our bedroom in an old Oasis T-shirt, bare legs gleaming. I drag her against me. “Missed you,” I growl, hand sliding under the cotton to palm one heavy breast. Her nipple pebbles instantly; she sighs, arching into my touch. My brain’s elsewhere—picturing her bent over Mark’s desk, skirt flipped up, his cock slamming into her from behind. I kiss the slope of her neck, tasting salt and coconut shampoo, and murmur, “Rough day at the coalface?” She laughs, breath hitching as my fingers slip between her thighs. She’s soaked already, lips swollen, clit a hard little pearl under my thumb. “Mad busy,” she gasps while I circle it slow.
I shove the T-shirt up, shove her onto the duvet, spread her wide. Her cunt’s flushed pink, slick and open, begging. I line up and drive in—one long thrust until my balls press against her arse. She cries out, legs locking round my waist. But as I fuck her—hard, rhythmic, the headboard smacking the wall—I’m seeing Mark’s hands bruising her hips, his spunk dripping down her thighs in the lift afterwards. The image makes me pound deeper, faster, sweat dripping off me onto her tits. “Yes—fuck—harder,” she chants, nails raking my back. I come with a guttural groan, pumping rope after rope inside her, the fantasy burning white-hot behind my eyes.
She curls into me after, sleepy and sated, oblivious. I stare at the ceiling, cock already stirring again. I need proof. I need to watch. |
