Chapter One

Now

 

"Spencer, you have no need to be nervous", I told the charming young man. "You have a beautiful body and should be proud of the effect you can have on an older woman."

At nineteen, and not being the best looking facial specimen, it was hardly surprising he would find my words pleasing and, though he was only just over eleven years younger than me, I was enjoying playing the "Mrs. Robinson" role with him.

Hell, I was enjoying just about everything these days.

"Now take your hands away from yourself and let me see the beautiful black cock that's going to give me such pleasure."

I allowed a warm and reassuring smile to cross my somewhat flushed face and was rewarded when it appeared to ease Spencer's understandable nervousness as he slowly moved his hands away from the equipment I fully intended to make much use of before he left my house.

The reveal of his wonderfully erect cock, veins pulsing as they snaked its considerable length, caused my smile to grow even wider and I felt the telltale signs of wetness between my own legs - or perhaps I should say, more wetness.

As he saw the effect his beautiful black cock had on the married woman who had been seducing him almost from the moment her law firm had taken him on as an office junior and she took note of the fabulous body his sober office clothing couldn't quite hide and was a direct contradiction to the face above it there was no disguising and remained in view for all to see, I noticed he began to look more confident and watched his shoulders grow a little less tense as he became more attuned to what were, after all, the unusual circumstances of his presence in the bedroom of one of his two female bosses.

"It seems only fair," I said, still standing fully-clothed in the master-bedroom that should, by rights, have been sacrosanct to me and my husband, "that as you've shown me what I will soon be receiving, I should reciprocate."

I beckoned with a finger:

"Come over here, Spencer, and undress me."

The burgeoning confidence receded almost instantly and I immediately knew its cause.

Not to know it, in fact, would have been pretty near impossible under the circumstances.

"Don't worry about him," I said referring to the likewise fully clothed figure kneeling with his nose in the corner and afraid to move. "I've told you, he is absolutely tame. My husband does everything I tell him and won't bother you."

"But...?" Spencer's voice was almost a whisper as he betrayed his incomprehension at the situation and I knew that what he was about to experience would have a defining effect upon the rest of his sexual life. That experience being a boat that had already sailed in respect of the young married woman he was about to fuck. And how grateful was I for that!

"But..." he persisted. "He... He's your husband. Why would...?"

He got no further as I closed the gap between us and reached a hand down between his legs to cup my hand around the magnificent balls that dangled beneath an equally breathtaking erection. Or, to be more precise, balls that sagged beneath his cock. So full were they of the youthful cream that defined his virility as well as his age.

"That's none of your business, young man," I told him in an authoritative voice that reflected my position as the rising young star of my legal chambers and, in effect, his boss. Or at least one of them. "I didn't invite you to my home to ask questions but simply to fuck." I slid my hand the length of the solid bar that was his pole and was encouraged to find it was losing none of its urgency despite his apparent misgivings. "Or do you have a problem with putting your cock at the disposal of the boss who can either make your working life very pleasant or ensure you don't work for our chambers at all?"

"No, hmm, MS Kenton," he said in the respectful way in which he addressed me at the office and I insisted he maintain now we were outside, lest he somehow get the impression that fucking me made him my equal. "I think you're just great and... and I don't have a problem with, you know, doing that. But... well..."

"Go on, say what you want to say," I urged in a voice intended to assure him he could speak freely and there would be no repercussions.

"Well... It's just that... I mean, he's your husband. He's so much older than you and... I mean, what is he? Forty? Fifty?"

"Forty-four," I told him, expression letting him know, along with the tightening of my grip about his shaft, that I was getting a tad fed-up with his questions.

"Yeah, well, I just don't understand how he can, you know, kneel in the corner while his wife... while his wife..."

"While his wife fucks someone else?" I suggested with a helpful if slightly impatient smile, though I had to admit to myself the fact we were having this discussion in the full hearing of my husband as he knelt in his corner, feeling unable to move, let alone interrupt, did add a certain... frisson... to the proceedings.

"Well, yeah. I mean. Come, MS Kenton, it's not what you'd call normal exactly, is it?"

Young Spencer, it seemed, had a talent for understatement and it brought a smile of amusement to my pert features as I swept a hand through the short and page-boy cut black hair that would have given me a Mediterranean look had it not been for the pale complexion beneath it.

That complexion being English Rose with thorns.

"No. It's not, Spencer," I agreed. "And guess what? I'm glad it's not."

For a moment he looked worried, as if he'd upset me.

"Normal - and it is my guess you will learn this sooner rather than later," I told him, "is boring. It's what countless millions of unimaginative souls aspire to their whole lives, simply because they're too unintelligent, too unimaginative or simply too scared to step out of the comfort zone being a part of a herd supplies them."

I wasn't at all sure he understood what I was saying - our company had only taken him on because we pride ourselves on our liberal credentials and a none too well-educated black boy from a council estate fitted with our "Mission Statement" ¬- but whether he did or not he seemed reassured and there was no appreciable lessening of his excitement at its length literally pulsed and jumped against the hand I was using to keep it imprisoned in a delightful confinement.

I do so love young men!

"Now, forget my husband and undress me," I ordered. "Slowly and with respect. I'm still your boss and I expect you to show me all courtesies."

His eyes regarded me as if I were the most exotic and powerful of earthly beings and I loved the feeling of being looked upon in such a way as I added, in a voice worthy of such a commanding goddess:

"Understand?"

My subject nodded, not so ill-educated he couldn't understand his place in the general scheme of things and, having already received a warning from me of what would happen to him if I heard so much of a whiff of this evening's events and the situation with my husband in chambers or anywhere else, looking more and more eager to serve.

That "warning", by the way, being one we both knew he would do well to heed if he wanted the status quo to remain in place.

Despite my relative youth I was rising fast and even being headhunted by other Chambers now that the change in my marriage and the fact I had taken the reins had led to a new and more assertive Rhonda Kenton. I was also gaining something of a reputation in chambers as an ice-cold negotiator and a ball-breaking bitch into the bargain. So I knew a lowly office junior he would not be about to take my threats lightly.

Power, I had realised when first starting my husband on the road to his present, and most abject, position in life, was every bit the drug I had heard it described to be and added another dimension to the sexual act.

Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say: "acts".

When he had, with surprising deference and gentleness to go with the respect I'd demanded, unzipped my skirt and unbuttoned my blouse before sliding down the pantyhose I'd worn all day at the office down my legs, I backed up a few steps to sit upon the edge of the bed and stared up at him expectantly.

"So Spencer, why don't you come and kneel before me. I'd ask my husband to warm my pussy up for you with his tongue but right now I would much prefer to see him with his nose in the corner as you perform the honours for me."

I saw my husband flinch at my words and, as Spencer placed himself between my legs and thrust an ingénue tongue that was other than Timothy's into my flooded gash, I marvelled at just how submissive to me the older and assured man I had married barely five years before had become in such a short space of time.

Something, it could be said with certainty, which had not always been the case...

 

Chapter Two

Then

 

"This is disappointing."

My husband looked down at me as if I'd given him a physical slap rather than one of the metaphorical variety.

I could see he felt embarrassed and, strangely, rather than inspire me to the usual: "It happens to all men at some time or another"; followed by the usual rebuilding of the male ego; his sense of shame for not being up to the challenge empowered me. We had been about to indulge in some lovemaking after a Saturday night on the town and, after what passed for foreplay with my normally wham, bang and thank you ma'am husband, I was looking forward to something that at least approximated sex when my husband could put it off no longer and fessed up.

"It's not happening, Rhon," he had told me as I waited for the usual penetration and the predictable soundtrack of grunts and sighs accompanying his progress. "Must have had too much wine."

Having voiced my disappointment some perverse and unexpected imp who, it seemed, had bided his time until now, compelled me to rub my husband's nose in his failure a little, wondering if the recent loss of his Civil Service position, together with the fact he was unable to get a sniff of anything else in the career arena at the advanced age of forty-three, was diminishing him as a man now I was the main - the only - breadwinner in the house.

"Is that your excuse for last Saturday?" I asked. "Not to mention the Saturday before that."

At the mention of what had become a depressingly regular lovemaking routine and, now, an even more mortifying and regular failure to perform on his part - mortifying to him, at least - Timothy looked down at me as if I'd physically struck him and looked about the room nervously, worried my jibe, albeit a gentle one at this point, had been overheard.

"It's Saturday," I both reminded and reassured him. "Katya and Ilse are staying with my parents."

This was a reference to my late sister's two daughters, thirteen and eleven respectively; the nieces I had insisted we adopt after their mother and Lithuanian father had been the victims of an unfortunate motorway pile-up not weeks before my marriage to Timothy.

The above being something he had been none too happy about until I insisted that my mother had enough to do looking after my invalid father to adopt them and made our upcoming nuptials dependent upon us taking on the responsibility ourselves.

This reticence on his part being something the girls, despite their young age, seemed to sense and ensured they were cool, if polite, towards him.

It was his second marriage and my opening, and hopefully last, salvo with the condition, his first having been a highly troubled affair. Though he had not seen fit to confide all the details to me. There had, however, been no offspring from his union with Veronica, so my new and older husband was not exactly used to having children around the house.

And especially young girls.

His partnership with Veronica had ended with much acrimony and her bitterness towards him - I had my own ideas regarding what that bitterness towards my handsome and much admired husband might be - lingered. Hence his reasoning for placing the home we bought together - the same house in which we live now and purchased before his divorce was final - in my name. A lovely house on the borders of Blackheath and Greenwich, close to the beautiful park and observatory overlooking the Thames, we had bought outright off the back of money from my parents and a doting aunt and a bequest to him from a relative he had managed to squirrel away and out from under the vengeful Veronica's nose.

A task which, he had informed me, had been worthy of all the Argonauts themselves.

His reasoning had made good sense to me as well.

Even if I had no idea at the time just how good it prove to be.

For me, anyway.

"Or perhaps," I went on, still flat on my back upon the mattress as we - I - engaged in a post-failure analysis of his inability to get it up, "you don't find your wife does it for you anymore?"

I was certain this wasn't the case and, like the diligent lawyer I am, was not about to ask a question to which I didn't already know the answer.

The accusation, just the same, served to place him even further on the backfoot and I could also see he was getting annoyed, if the colour at his temples spoke truly.

He was also biting back an urge to castigate me in some way for daring to comment on his... failure... and I instinctively knew now, rather than suspected, that this was twinned with the loss of his Civil Service position and my de facto elevation to head-of-household - albeit only financially.

Previously, he had always had the last word - mostly due to the fact that he was, as well as being a very handsome man still, an accomplished sophist who would, had he been in possession of other forensic skills quite lacking in him, made a passable Queen's Counsel.

Now it seemed the loss of a position he had held since leaving school and, no doubt, had expected to hold until the appearance of the gold-watch or silver-cigarette-case, or whatever gift for long-service occurred to the fertile imaginations of people spending their days counting paper-clips and fussing over secure-waste, had not only dented his confidence but taken a little of the fight from him.

His discomfort, I could do no more than be honest with myself, was not exactly displeasing to me.

"Don't be ridiculous, Rhon. That will never happen."

"No?"

"No."

"Then you still find me as sexy as ever?"

"I'm surprised you have to ask."

"What? I'm lying here with my legs open and your cock is as limp as an over-boiled noodle? And you're surprised?"

His lips opened but no sound accompanied their goldfish-like movements in response to my rat-a-tat-tat of high-rise-terminals.

A lack that was not troubling me in any way.

Quite the opposite, in fact.

"It's really not good enough, Timothy," I told him, surprised, despite the fact I was hardly regarded as a pushover myself, to be taking such a censorious tone with him - and for a failing he might have expected to fetch him some commiseration and reassurance. "You act as if I'm responsible for your redundancy and I'm getting pretty fed-up with your spinelessness."

"Sp-Spinelessness?" he repeated, not taking well to being accused of non-vertebrate status for what was probably the first time.

I, on the other hand, was enjoying talking down to him in such a way for pretty much the first time and the unexpected rush of arousal accompanying this heretofore unheard of activity was simply too delightful for me to want to stop:

"That's what I said," I told him with a face of granite. "You mope about the house feeling sorry for yourself because the job-market is depressed and your somewhat narrow CV doesn't have employers queuing up for you. And that's all you do."

He remained silent at this, even his advanced sophistry unable to mount a defence, no matter how spurious, in the face of what we both knew was no more than a simple and damning truth.

"If it wasn't for the fact you take the girls to school and pick them up, you wouldn't leave the house at all."

He had scrambled off me by now and was seated on the edge of the bed with his back turned as I began my first - certainly not my last - castigation of him as a man and a husband; head shaking from side-to-side as if he couldn't believe I would ever have the nerve to speak to him in such a way.

If the wetness I could feel leaking from my aroused cunt onto the mattress was a guide, I knew he had better get used to the phenomenon.

"And what do I find when I come home?" I accused, on a roll and enjoying myself at his expense immensely - even if I was a tad startled to take such pleasure from belittling a husband whose looks still made me melt and with whom, up to now and plasticine cock apart, I'd been relatively happy and fulfilled. "You sitting in front of the flat-screen watching whatever brain-numbing sport happens to be available at the time."

Bending up from the waist to face his back, my arms went wide with genuine contempt and condescension:

"Yesterday, you were actually watching darts when I got back from chambers."

My head shook from side-to-side though I knew he couldn't see this evidence of my bafflement.

"I mean... darts!"

A put-upon sigh escaped him at this and served only to fuel my growing exasperation and a strange need to... punish... him in some way.

"Am I to take it you've suddenly developed a sexual fixation on the type of obese, pint-guzzling, council-estate tarts that go to watch this rubbish? Does that explain your sudden passion for "arrers"?"

"Rhonda," he began, twisting his head around to stare at me and using the full version of my name he adopted whenever he wanted me to know he was serious, "you're being exceptionally silly. Just because..."

"...Just because," I came in, "you'd prefer to pull yourself off to some low-grade porkers rather than fuck your young wife, there's no need for me to be upset? Is that what you're saying?"

"Don't be pathetic!" he snapped, finding some animation at last and springing to his feet, sudden assertion made less than impressive by the fact the cock that was at least serviceable erect had shrivelled to dimensions not far short of a Cadbury's Walnut-Whip - though in his defence there aren't many men who can be naked and offer an argument likely to be taken seriously without at least having an erection to go with their nudity.

"I'm just going through a bad patch," he protested, somewhat pathetically I though. "That's all. If you were any kind of supportive wife you'd be trying to help me work my way through it rather than undermining me at every turn simply because I've too much on my mind to fuck you properly."

Now I was the one who could feel colour at her temple.

"Undermine you?"

Now I was on my feet also, incensed that he could have said such a thing.

"Leaving aside the fact," I began, "that I'm not sure if you've ever fucked me properly..."

The barb hit home instantly and it struck me, even as I prepared to deliver more, that his days of winning arguments with me were now a thing of antiquity - whether he were to employ sophistry, straight fact, or even brute force.