My latest offering to the world of erotic fiction 'The Megan Affair - Part One', has been receiving some excellent reviews on Amazon. So you can get a taster of the tensions that make up the first part of this serialisation, I am offering the following sample to draw you in!
I'm currently working on the second part of this series, which will be released around the end of July.
The injury had mollified my
mood, albeit involuntarily, John took me to the bathroom, where he cleaned and
dressed my wound. I absolutely hated his generosity, but at the time I had no
choice. We didn't have any bandages in the house, so he cut up an old towel and
taped it tightly around my arm with some duct tape that he had bought years
ago, with the misguided intention of fixing something.
"Are you okay Sarah?"
He looked me in the eye for the first time that night, I slouched back against
the bath, as I noticed a suggestion of guilt pass over his face.
"Of course I'm not
okay." I said quietly, staring back at him.
"Oh."
"My husband is fucking a
girl young enough to be his child, I've just trashed my own house, and now I've
cut my fucking arm open!" I managed to stay calm during the first part of
the sentence, before the anger began to swell again as my energy returned.
"What part of my life is
okay John?" I raised my voice as much as my faint-headed state would
allow.
John didn't answer, he sat on
the closed toilet lid and rightly accepted that silence was the only
appropriate response.
He looked at the floor and I
looked away from him, neither of us could bear the sight of one another. I
became more clear-headed, but my arm still throbbed intently, it was only the
pain that prevented me from losing my temper even further. If I'd had the
energy, I probably would have smashed the bathroom up as well. Although I'm not
a violent woman, I find that there are certain instances in life when you cease
to be the person you normally are.
I had loved him, and I knew that
he loved me; but I think that even before he'd found himself a young floozy, I
doubt we were 'in love' anymore. I guess our marriage had evolved into a
partnership of support, friendship and respect; well, I respected him at least.
In spite of all his apologies and protestations, it was clear that he no longer
respected me; if he had, he wouldn't have done what he did.
But, John was about to leave and
I never wanted to see him again, although I did want him to think of me, I
wanted him to remember what we had, and what he threw away. A moment's inspiration told me exactly how to get
inside his head.
"John..." I snapped at
him, from my slouched position between the sink and bath.
"Ooohh!" He lifted his
sobbing head out of his hands and looked directly at me. "Yeah?"
"Will you fuck me?" I said matter-of-factly, in the same tone I would
use to ask him to pass me the salt.
"Huh?" I had his
attention, I don't think he could believe what he had just heard.
"I said, will you fuck me
John?" I repeated calmly, holding eye contact with him and resisting the
temptation to blink.
"Sarah are you..."
"Yes I'm fucking serious
John!" I found the energy and anger within me to raise my voice again.
"I'm...oh... fuck."
John stammered, I could see that his mind was a warren of confusion.
"John, it's a simple
question." His hesitancy was not my concern, I was fully aware that I held
pole position in the argument, and I intended to capitalise on it. I don't get angry
very often, but when I do I find it brings with it an aroused and inflamed
sexual appetite, this episode with John was no exception.
"I think under the
circumstances, you owe me that much at least." I stared at him and awaited
a response, I guessed by his unease that he must have made a vow of fidelity to
his little slut. The idea of him
cheating on her flooded my threadbare
panties.
"I can't Sarah. It's not
fair." I fought the weakness and pulled myself up, gripping the side of
the sink with my good arm, as the bad one hung limply by my side.
"John, don't tell me what's
fair. Fair has no place in this house anymore!" I called out, as I walked
wobblingly to open the window, before stopping directly in front of him. I felt
his nervy breath on the top of my head, as the cool breeze made me feel a little
more awake.
My anger with him gradually
homogenised into a needy resolve to fuck the bastard. I wanted to do it for all
three of our sakes: for my satisfaction, his guilt and her anger. In my mind it
was the only reasonable thing to do. As he stood muttering nervously to
himself, I dropped to my knees, still a little unsteady, I gripped his legs for
support, John's knees buckled immediately from his apprehensive attitude
towards the unfolding situation.
"John!" I snapped, and
he subserviently stood properly. What happened from there on began as a
vengeful need for malevolence, yet transpired to be the means to fulfil one of
my basic needs. Sure, I wanted to hurt her and make him guilty on two counts;
but my biggest concern at that precise moment was the growing rate of moisture
between my legs.
The fact he didn't wear a belt
made it easy to get inside his trousers. John was the only man I knew who would
wear a shirt tucked into his jeans without a belt; I wonder what I ever saw in
him. After fumbling unsuccessfully for a few seconds, I lost my temper and
ripped them open, briefly raising my eyebrows in satisfaction of ruining his
jeans.
"No...Sarah...I
can't..." He sighed unconvincingly to himself, as I pulled them down to
his ankles and noticed that he had new briefs on.
"Shut up John! You owe me
this." He didn't argue, he couldn't argue. He was beginning to get the
hang of this 'silence at appropriate moments' thing.
The growing mound in John's
pants made my mouth water, the anger and adrenaline probably helped, but I've
never been the type of woman who could turn down a good hard cock. Although he
never had much intelligence or style and turned out to be a complete bastard,
John had the perfect cock. It was monolithically long and thick, it was delicious
in every interpretable sense of the word. I swayed erratically on my knees
before him, his dick looked even more satisfying to me then as it was no longer
exclusively mine.
"No..." His
protestations decreased in volume, as he dutifully stepped out of his old jeans
and immaculate briefs. His fuckrod stood upright and ready for action, the last
few inches had disappeared under the base of his blood stained shirt. A
somewhat contradictory response from someone who persistently attempted to
spurn the advances from the woman whose blood covered his shirt.
"No...Ohhh...Arrhhh...Sar..."
He tried, he tried to tell me to stop, but as I dropped my cavernous throat
around his succulent cock, he knew he couldn't say no. John's shaft was
immense, yet my oral talents were accommodating, many times he had told me that
I was the only woman who could fit it all in. And John loved a woman who could
fit it all in. I bet his little slut
can't, oh he's going to enjoy this!
I stood up from my kneeling
position and bent my waist bent to an almost perfect right angle, with my neck
strained back; that way I could take more of his cock in me as I unkinked my
windpipe. Before returning to work on him I glanced fleetingly into his eyes, I
saw a voiceless man who was completely lost in his own life.
John neither protested against,
nor encouraged my actions. As I spread my lips and slid inch after inch of his
heroic cock between them, the eroticism of the situation overcame me, I could
no longer keep my free hand out of my own tatty trousers. Angry sex can be one
of the most paradoxical emotional actions; I wanted to kill the fucker, yet at
the same time to give him the best orgasm he had ever had.
*