Martin Blakewell had been fucking his cleaner, Jenna Havlicek, for ten whole minutes, before his wife had come home. By his word, his osteoporosis was still giving him grief, so much so that it called caused his and his wife, Amelia’s, recent holiday to Crete to be cut short, much to her very brilliantly managed disappointment, given that it was the first time in months that the two of them had managed to navigate a conversation with both subjects in the same room, that wasn’t about the dog, the kids, or the dodgy looking couple who’d moved into number 53.Calling up to her husband, Amelia slumped down three Waitrose bags next to the ornately rusted Aga, before pouring herself a glass of Chablis and turning on the Hi-Fi system. It was while flicking through the small cluster of letters, left haphazardly across the parquet floor of the hallway (by their Jack Russell, Bertie), that she heard the thuds. Something upstairs was banging. Louder, and louder each time.Poised and concerned, she tiptoed up the carpeted staircase cautiously, the oversized wine glass in her dainty, wrinkled hand, each step closer to the sound, hoping that she wasn’t in fact walking into danger. There were rumours that the couple at 53 had, as Beth Ditton next door called it, ‘done time’— burglary was all Fullerton Mews needed, to add to the growing list of issues closing in on the once affluent area. Reaching the landing, she could hear something accenting each of the bangs and thuds. Moans. Breathy, hoarse, near-panicked moans of a woman, sounding on cue as something thudded into something else. Suddenly, a loud thwack of skin against skin frightened her, causing her to freeze, her glass falling to the beige furze of carpet below, its fuzzy down greying with fermented grapes. She held her breath, frozen to the spot, fearing that she’d been heard. Nothing— the sounds continued.Following the sound of the commotion to her bedroom door, she crept towards the large, teak door frame, şişli escort and leaning on the ornate, brass handle, cracked the door by a few centimeters, and gasped. Covering the narrow hole of her mouth with her hand in shock, her pupils dilated with sheer dismay. There he was, her husband of twenty-two years. His tan rear end, sandwiched between the long, dainty legs of their cleaner, her dusty, black, ballerina flats dangling, while being fucked deep into the headboard of a martial bed to which she didn’t belong. Back and forth Martin thrust into her narrow pussy, holding her slender torso like a limp ragdoll, as he transferred the force of his greedy cock into her greedier still, fanny. Waves of shock trailed across Amelia’s entire being, so much so that her vision became speckled with white dots, her limbs becoming limp, her eyes glazing over as she, for the first time, saw her marriage in tatters.“You like being my wife, do you?” Martin barked at the young girl, holding her ponytail in a firm grip, as she nodded“Yes, Mr— Mr. Blakes! Uh— oh fuck. Oh— shit. I like it a lot.”“I’m gonna load your pussy up, just like you like it. You ready baby?”“Uh huh— uh— fuck. I love feeling you stretching me! Stretch this sexy teen, wife-pussy.” Amelia listened on, wincing in disgust.“You cumming? You gonna cum for your sexy— sexy wife?” Jenna asked two minutes later. Amelia felt she’d been watching the spectacle for a lifetime at this point.“Oh yes, Mrs. Blakewell. I will be cumming. Cumming right into your tiny, tight— ugh fuck!”Sadistically, Amelia stayed and watched as Martin lay prone between Jenna’s thin legs, the two of them kissing passionately in a way that she didn’t know her husband was capable of doing before finally, leaving for the kitchen, while the man she married proceeded to lick his impressive load of semen from the younger, tighter vagina of the woman Amelia herself had saved from homelessness just eight months ago.Putting mecidiyeköy escort on her long, forest green, leather boots, she stepped out into the autumn air and walked aimlessly in a melancholic trance until evening came, bumming a cigarette off a cluster of young mothers at the park, resigning herself to a lone bench, crying until the sun finally disappeared beneath the reservoir.Later that night, when she’d finally finished removing her make-up and tied her hair into its familiar messy bun, she slid into their marital bed, trying her best to ignore the stains from earlier on to the duvet— stubborn dried lakes of female discharge, cum and sweat that her lazy husband hadn’t even tried to hide. Reaching in to kiss her, Martin paused.“Why do you smell like cigarettes,” he quizzed, confused. Amelia, looked straight ahead at the mounted television at the end of the room, in a trance. On the screen, a chef, complete with pristine chef whites and a long hat, was shuffling his frying pan with a dexterity that made the audience applaud politely.“How’s your osteoporosis? Had any problems today?”.***Four weeks went by before Martin’s affair resumed, undoubtedly a result of his growing paranoia that his wife had clocked onto his misdeeds. Yet, in that month, full of pitiful crying in the family SUV while parked in abandoned carparks on the edge of town, and planning suicide notes with drunken scrawls, the strangest thing happened to Amelia Blakewell. Something within her psyche became altered, or at least open to arousal— an arousal which was no doubt in her own mind, perverted, and sick and indicated something bad had happened to her at some point in the past, and yet turned her on more than her husband had at his own hand, in all their years of marriage. The first day she noticed it, was during a conference call at work. Listening to fast-talking investors from Japan, she had nearly zoned out of the three-hour conversation, angrily daydreaming about the adulterous sight seen a month earlier, before noticing a peculiar and warm wetness in her crotch below. It was only once she had excused herself, rushed to the toilet, and checked her gusset that she realised that it was not a post-pregnancy bladder giving up on her, but instead, a translucent trail of sexual excitement, evidenced as sticky, creamy white on the black fabric.For the first time in her life, she sat in the cubicle of the staff toilet, her simple, plain, black knickers around her ankles, masturbating furiously with two fingers, penetrating herself slowly as she imagined the sight of Jenna’s pussy after Martin had had his wicked way with her, anger, disgust, jealousy and desire fuelling her with every poke of her fervent slit. When she finally orgasmed, she licked her fingers in ecstasy, savouring her own musk and taste before continuing again and again, until realising that she’d been away from the meeting for the best of an hour.When she finally returned, Amelia rubbed her lower stomach in the direction of her boss, Graham.“I think I’m gonna work from home for the rest of the day,” she mouthed weakly, wincing, feigning an imaginary illness. She looked him straight in the eye— a level of intimacy that she knew he could simply not handle. “Lady problems.”His eyes widened in awkward shock, patting the sweat,y bald patch that shone beneath the strip lighting above like a dense egg. Of course, he asked no questions. Full of excitement, Amelia drove around the city, before finding a secluded spot beneath a flyover, parking up, and sitting in the rear leather seats of the SUV, peeled away her soaked knickers from her warm hind flesh, cautiously holding them to her nose, as she orgasmed furiously into the frigid night.***Over the following months, Amelia had done everything to both distance herself from her adulterous, frankly disappointing husband of two and a bit decades, and to encourage his adultery with their teenage cleaner. There was no doubt to her that a war was being waged by her rational and irrational mind, but the reward of infinite orgasms was worth the psychological battle.