Me, on the other hand… this is my shot. I didn’t grow up with wealth. I don’t have family money I can fall back on if this all goes to shit. I have one weapon in my arsenal, and that’s my sexuality. I plan to use it.
Tuesday 10th July 2012
10.21am
Johansen Bell Communications
“We need to get the investors on board with the expansion of the Manchester office,” Annika said, tapping her pen on her pad of paper. The noise was irritating. Aoife wished she would stop.
“God, yeah, that’s another thing to add to the list,” Aoife replied, shaking her head, scribbling herself a reminder. She was in her daily morning meeting with Annika Johansen, her business partner. Annika was Swedish, a plain but exceptionally well-dressed woman, with straight blonde hair down to the middle of her back.
“I’ll get on the phone with Richard today,” Annika said, as they rose from their seats.
“Thanks, Anni,” Aoife said over her shoulder, as she walked into her own office and closed the door behind her. She sat at her desk and leant her chin on her hand, looking at the wedding picture of her and Piers in its silver frame on her desk. They looked like babies in that picture, she realised. She’d never noticed that before.
They’d had another fight last night, over something so petty she struggled to recall it now. They were both exhausted from the pressures of running their own businesses, prone to snapping over the slightest thing.
She’d been the first to start a business, despite the fact that it had always been his dream. She and Annika had set up shop in the early 2000s, and they’d held steady even after the crash of 2008. She’d always been proud of that.
Now, the firm was blossoming, the recipient of several awards. She’d never say this to his face, but she secretly felt Piers was savagely jealous of her success.
It didn’t work, for both of them to have businesses. The stress was too much; their marriage was disintegrating. She’d toyed with the idea of selling her half of the firm and focusing her attention on her home life, but why should she? She’d started her business first. If anyone should quit, it was him.
And so they were in purgatory, neither of them willing to give in first and admit that things needed to change. They weren’t willing to change individually, so how would either of them be willing to put the hard work and save the marriage? It seemed as though they could only proceed in the stasis they found themselves in.
She looked to the glass shelf on her wall, the one that held half of Johansen Bell’s industry awards. They made her feel happy. Awards couldn’t keep you warm at night, but perhaps that didn’t matter. They were proof that outside of her marriage, her life was a success… and that was good enough for her.
Friday 27th July 2012
7.11pm
Bamber House Restaurant
The waiter is pouring us each a glass of vintage white, a pristine towel folded over his arm. Piers takes a sip of the wine and gives the waiter a curt nod of approval. The waiter smiles, bows his head slightly and moves away. Piers lifts his glass towards me.
“To us,” he says, and I ‘cheers’ him with my glass, smiling. As I sip my wine (which is delicious and cool), I turn the word ‘us’ over in my mind. Piers obviously chose it for a reason; he could have really toasted to anything. But the word ‘us’ suggests a closeness, the forming of a unit. Is that how he sees this; that we are forming an ‘us’. Or does he still go out to dinner with his wife and toast to ‘us’ with her? I try to put this thought out of my mind.
We’ve gone to dinner well outside of the city, somewhere it’s unlikely he’ll run into any of his friends or acquaintances. Still, the restaurant is exquisite; his choice. The lighting is muted, candlesticks glowing on every table. There is gentle chatter, the murmuring tones of the upper class who know just how to behave in an establishment like this one. I’m definitely the youngest woman in here; when we arrived, the eyes of the male diners swivelled subtly towards me. I’m wearing a high-neck, backless black sheath dress with a pair of Helmut Lang heels. The heels were a gift from Piers. I slip my foot out of one now and slip in inside Piers’ trouser leg, gently stroke his ankle. He smiles at me over his wine glass.
“Have you decided what you want?” he asks me.
“The beef looks good,” I say, perusing the creamy paper of the menu.
“The beef is excellent here,” he replies. He calls the waiter over and orders for both of us.
“You look gorgeous tonight, darling,” he says. “It’s nice to have the date that every other man envies.”
I giggle softly, pleased by this. “You like my dress?” I say.
“It’s a good one… you suit black,” he replies. “I wonder if we ought to incorporate more black into your wardrobe.”
He seems to ponder on something for a moment.
“I’d introduce you to my personal shopper, but unfortunately she knows my wife,” he says, with just the tiniest edge in his voice when he says the final two words. “That could be something we could do together sometime, though, find another personal shopper and give you a good long session with her. You could buy whatever you want, naturally.”
I feel flushed. I can tell if it’s from happiness, from the wine, or a bit of both. “I’d love that,” I say, and I reach out and put my hand in his. It looks small and dainty in comparison.
“I love your hands,” he says, turning it over and examining it. I do have good hands; slim, tapered fingers ending in beautifully healthy nails. Several people have told me I should look into hand modelling, but I’ve just never had the time. He laces his fingers into mine and looks at my manicure, a discreet but pretty French nail. “Everything about you is just perfectly made, isn’t it? I don’t understand how someone can turn out so flawless.”
I feel absurdly happy. Our food arrives; he’s right, the beef is amazing, it just falls off the bone. We’re rushing eating, though, and we skip dessert. I know what we’re both thinking. We’re horny, ready to get to the good bit. He can have me for dessert.
He pays, leaving a sizeable tip for the waiter, and we take off into the night. The countryside is dark, lush, verdant and mysterious in the glow of his headlights. He drives for a while, looking out for a suitable place. We find a small car park to the side of the road, shrouded by trees. There’s no one else here. We pull off.
“Get out and go around to the bonnet,” he tells me, as he turns off the engine of his car. It gives a slight hiss as it shuts down.
I walk around to the front of the car.
“Bend over it,” he instructs me, and I do what I’m told. He gropes at my knees, pulls my skirt up above my waist. My bare ass is exposed to the cold; I purposefully didn’t wear knickers.
“You naughty girl,” he says in a low, approving growl, giving my bare ass cheek a little spank. He slides his cock out of his trousers and inside of me. I moan as he pushes it in as deep as he can.
All of a sudden another car pulls up opposite, facing towards us, lighting the two of us up in the glow of its headlights. In the brightness I can’t make out a thing about the driver. I look back at Piers, waiting for his reaction.
“Fuck it, let them watch,” he says, and he starts pounding my pussy beneath the stare of the anonymous driver. We’re in the middle of nowhere; I let loose with my moans, confident I’m not disturbing anyone. I put my hand between my legs, rub my clit vigorously, make myself cum on his cock. I feel good about putting on a show for the unknown driver. I imagine they’re enjoying it; what’s not to enjoy about Piers and I?
After a while Piers pulls out.
“Turn around, down on your knees,” he gasps, the universal gasp of a man on the verge of an orgasm. I do as he says and he puts a gentle hand beneath my chin, gripping it as he unloads a mouthful of warm cum onto my tongue. I swallow it down, then stick my tongue out to show him it’s all gone.
“Good girl,” he says. The car opposite us starts up its engine, does a 180° turn and drives away, leaving the two of us behind in the moonlight. Piers and I look at each other and laugh, exhilarated and incredulous. We’re still laughing as he drives me home.
Aoife didn’t really know how she’d ended up here. Piers was out for the night (work drinks with clients) and at some point she’d grown tired of shitty Friday night TV. She’d shut off the television with a decisiveness that surprised herself, and then somehow she’d found herself in her walk-in wardrobe. She’d pulled on a liquid silk blouse, black patent leggings and killer black stilettos, then admired her ass in the full-length mirror. Not bad for forty. Thank god she hadn’t had any kids. She’d have ruined her figure.
She’d called a cab, naming the first bar she could think of that wouldn’t be teeming with eighteen year olds. Capote’s had an upscale clientele of mostly middle-aged professionals. Aoife was the only lone drinker. She sat at the bar nursing a Sancerre, feeling slightly self-conscious. Before long she was attracting glances from a handsome, red-headed forty-something. He peeled himself away from the group he was with, made his way over and nodded at her near-empty glass.
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