Barbi-Can

The guy and his wife left without a backward glance. Sarah gave me her most mischievous grin.

"You seemed to enjoy that," I said.

"He played amazingly," she said, poker faced.

I could not tell who she was referring to, Kennedy, or the guy what had been sitting beside her, strumming with his fingertips while Kennedy used his bow.

More looks of all kinds on the way back down to the cloak-room. The Polish guy enjoyed exchanging the cloakroom ticket for Sarah's coat. At the end of the evening, he was less professional more direct in his gaze, as he handed her the light, white summer coat that she had used for the tube ride to the concert hall. She slipped it on.

I had my car parked in the basement car park. Even at night, automatic transmission makes London driving so much easier. No change of gear at every set of lights. You can even drive one handed, and keep the other hand warm between soft thighs.

The drive took only half an hour. Sarah opened the car door and slid from the passenger seat, ensuring her cost was wrapped around her. Neighbours would never see that dress.

I climbed out, pressing the key fob to lock the car. Sarah was already at the front door. I joined her as she turned her key.

"No children, remember," she said. "Not until tomorrow."

The invitation was clear. We could do what we wanted, where we wanted.

Inside, I closed the door, removed her coat, held her close, and kissed her. She responded, urgently.

I slid the dress up her thighs and over her buttocks, one hand caressing the smooth, soft flesh and in between the delectable globes that were now bare. My other hand found her almost smooth pubic mound, my fingertips sensing the freshly shaven feel, and probed between her labia, and the wetness of her cunt.

Sarah's hands found my belt, my zip, my cock.

Arms around my neck, she bent her legs, lowering herself to the polished floorboards of the hall beside the staircase, drawing me down with her, on top of her.

I pushed my trousers down. Around my knees was far enough. I needed to be inside her and did not want to wait. Married or not, I was going to fuck this woman like no other.

She arched back as I entered her, moaning with pleasure, and that was how we fucked, her dress around her waist, her bare buttocks on the polished wood, my shirt rucked up, trousers down but not yet off, my buttocks humping her, my cock thrusting at her cunt, her gasping and crying, and whispering that I should fuck her harder, fuck her the way the guy in the bar would have done, and so I slammed my cock into her, making her shriek, no children to hear, only neighbours, and we were past caring, not even when she came, long and loud, and telling me to come inside her, to do it now, so that all I had to do was continue thrusting until I was filling her with the semen that had been building since she had removed her coat and displayed her breasts and nipples to any and all of Kennedy's enthusiastic audience.

Two half dressed adults disengaging on a bare hall floor underlines how the sexual urge can make us look ridiculous, but right then, we really did not care.

For long moments we ignored how ludicrous we would have looked to anyone but ourselves, and lay on the polished floorboards, Sarah sideways, head on my shoulder, buttocks and thighs still bare, one stocking below the knee, the other still above, fondling my cock and balls, then opening the buttons of my shirt, running her fingers through my chest hair, while my legs were still entangled in my trousers, belt and shorts.

I raised my upper body just enough to reach down and slip off my shoes and socks. I used just my legs, somehow manoeuvring my trousers and shorts down my lower legs and off.

"You do realise you didn't really answer?" I said.

Sarah returned her attention to my flaccid cock, unconcerned about the secretions that still coated it.

"Answer what?" she asked.

"The guy who propositioned you. Would you have slept with him? If I had agreed. Or if I had not been there."

She kissed my shoulder.

"Maybe," she said. "He was amusing, and quite attractive, and I think he would have been willing to pay to fuck me. How much, I'm not quite sure."

My cock began to harden.

"What about your husband?"

She stroked gently, her hand my cock, encouraging it to harden even more.

"I'm not sure," she said. "He likes it when I don't wear my wedding ring. I may be wrong, but I think it might excite him another guy were to have his way with me. Would that be so wrong?"

"I'd have to work that one out," I said. "But you could be right. It might excite him."

She lifted her head, bending her body, and kissed my now rock hard cock, just where the frenum was pulled taut. Then she raised herself from beside me, kneeling, leaning forwards on her hands, bringing one leg across my body, squatting over me, reaching beneath her for my cock, guiding it, the head to her cunt, and pushing back and down, taking its full length.

Her dress was around her waist, and she took hold of it, pulling it up and over head, shaking her hair free of it, her full, thick nippled breasts swaying, inviting my palms to cup the wide areoles, covering them, sensing the hardness of her nipple stubs.

"Then maybe," Sarah said. "Maybe, if not the guy from the bar, someone else. Maybe exposing myself is no longer enough to satisfy my husband's darker needs. Or my own. I liked it when the guy in the auditorium was touching me. Maybe the next time my husband lets me take off my wedding ring, I should find another man to fuck me the way you did just then."

She began to ride me. The floor beneath me was hard, but she was warm and soft around my cock and on my body, and wet with her own secretions, and with the semen I had spewed into her already.

"Maybe you should," I said.

"Do you think he'd like that?"

She was whispering into my ear, her nipples grazing my chest, her hair falling cross my face.

"That girl was right," I said. "You are a total slut."

"I know," she said. "I think that's why you married me."

I put my arms around her back. Instead of letting her dictate the pace, I held her still and thrust into her from underneath, again and again and again.

She really was incredible. Yet another date night had been wonderful. Ever since we had married, she had willingly accepted my sexual wants, adopting the role of exhibitionist, exposing herself for my pleasure, before finding that it gave her pleasure too.

I continued thrusting, thinking of the guy in the suit, and his offer to pay to fuck the woman I was now fucking. I wondered if he had realised that she was my wife.

Something told me that unless I stopped her, it would not be long before the woman I had married, the woman I was fucking, would be describing what it had been like to have another man inside her, to have his cock where mine was now, to have him spew his semen deep into the cunt that I was fucking, emptying himself, filling her.

I would need to draw a line. To make clear that whatever fantasy we might enjoy, there would be no third party games, except to look, perhaps to touch, but never any more than that.

And she would need to wear her rings again before we picked up our children in the morning.