Because the Night

Brigitte walked through the night, stumbling occasionally over obstacles she could not see. Her dog had no such trouble – she pranced along, sniffing god knows what and having a great time doing it. It was cloudy, the only illumination coming from the houses scattered sparsely about her. She was nearing the halfway point of her walk, once she passed the next home she would turn back, covering the same ground to her house, trying to avoid the deposits her dog had made along the way.

The last house was a bungalow, a short, squat building that the owners rented out for long periods of time. The current occupant, a young man named Ben Carter, had been there for three months of a sixteen month lease. He was a recent college graduate and was spending the time earning money for going back to university. Brigitte and her husband had had him over for dinner one night – he was a nice guy, but shy. There was only one light on in his home now, as Brigitte and dog came closer.

Out of habit, and because there was nothing else to see, Brigitte glanced towards the window. Ben was lying back on his recliner looking at something. Brigitte paused to watch him – with the night so dark and his room so bright, it was as if Ben lay on the wrong side of a one-way mirror. She enjoyed the voyeuristic thrill of it, watching the sparse frame of this handsome young man, as he lay engrossed in what she assumed was the television. The rain, which had been threatening appearance all day, finally made good and began to gush down. Brigitte had worn only a short jacket over her denim blouse and jeans and she went to zip it up. Her fingers dropped, numb, from the zip when Ben's cock suddenly sprang from his trousers.

It was enormous, she realised. Thick and fat and very long. The distance concealed every detail other than the size, but she could not remember an equal to this monster in her long and colourful sexual history. Ben wrapped both hands around his cock and began a series of fast, powerful strokes. He masturbated like a man shaking a ketchup bottle. Brigitte watched, the rain ignored as it trickled down into the valley between her breasts and plastered her tight jeans to her thighs, where a warmer liquid, too, ran. Her dog tugged on the lead, unaware of and uninterested in what her mistress was seeing, but Brigitte stood firm.

She unbuttoned her jeans, but did not drop them, just loosened them enough that her hand could slip inside. Once there, palm tickled by her bush, she coiled her fingers around her panties and slipped them to one side. They were sodden, as wet as if she had held them in the rain. Her index finger quickly found the hard little nub of her clit and caressed it into a quick, shuddering orgasm.

As she came, she dropped the lead and had to lean on the fence ringing Ben's property to support herself, since her trembling legs would not. She kept swirling her finger against her clit until she could take it no more. The dog, which had run off, returned now to investigate the strange, yipping sounds her mistress had made. Brigitte had reached orgasm in under a minute, something even her vibrator had not achieved in months. In the window, Ben still stroked his magnificent cock, and Brigitte watched – not masturbating herself now, but determined to see the end. Soon enough he came, his hand darting quickly to his side to capture a piece of toilet roll into which he shot his load. Brigitte watched until the leviathan was tucked away, then rushed for home.

Her husband, Marcus, arrived soon after, back from another late session at the office. Brigitte had left the dog in her kennel, then went into the house to wait for Marcus and now pressed wetly against him. Even after a long day's work he still smelled fresh, like shower gel and the clean scent of his aftershave.

"Hey," he said, "you're soaking!"

Brigitte realised she had covered Marcus's suit in a dark slick of water. She'd wash it tomorrow, but now more urgent matters guided her.

"I'm dripping, mon chere."

When they had met at college, Marcus had found Brigitte's accent irresistible. "The French," he had said, "could say sexually transmitted disease and it would sound sexy."

Now she kissed him, pressing her lips roughly against his and laying one hand against his crotch. Marcus was nowhere near Ben's size, but she had nothing to complain about. Well, until recently, anyway.

Marcus kissed her back, but the soft fleshy cock under her hand did not even twitch. She began to stroke him, first gently, then rougher and rougher as he failed to respond, until finally Marcus broke the kiss.

"I'm sorry Brige. It's been a long day, and I'm just not in the mood."

She told herself not to be angry. Told herself that after eight years of marriage they couldn't hope to remain as sexually voracious for each other. Tried not to think of those first six years when they made love everyday and at the weekends seldom left the bed, sometimes lying together for hours with Marcus's cock nestled in her cunt, not moving, just lost in the intimate sensation of owning another's body with love.

"Fine," she said, angrier than she had intended.

"Look, Brigitte, it's been a while…"

She interrupted. "Three months."

"Three… look, we'll do something at the weekend. A romantic dinner, then back here."

He smiled, a thin, watery echo of his old charming smile and Brigitte thought of those long ago weekends and tried not to cry.

That night he lay with his back to her. She slept naked, as she had for the last few weeks to try and get him hard, but he had kissed her swiftly on the cheek and fallen asleep. That was an hour ago now, and Brigitte lay unmoving, watching the slow progression of the hands on the clock. Finally she threw back the covers and began rubbing her left breast, her right hand drifting down to stroke the lips of her pussy. She rubbed one breast until its nipple was hard and sharp feeling, then moved on to the other. Her pussy was again soaked in her juices, and she began to fuck herself, first with one, then with two fingers. As she did, her left hand tweaked and pinched her now-hard nipples. At first she tried to hold back her moans, but then she decided Marcus should know what he had reduced her to, and began to moan loudly, even showily. All the time thinking of her well hung neighbour, Ben, she added a third finger to the mock penis that was thrumming in and out of her pussy with a liquid slapping sound. Despite this and her increasingly urgent gasps, Marcus slept soundly through her orgasm.

At last, she slept.

The next morning, unusually, Brigitte woke when Marcus did. She saw him get up to go to the bathroom and noticed the bulge in the boxer shorts he slept in. She quickly threw the covers off and spread her legs, baring her pussy lasciviously. Her hands began to stroke her thighs, which this morning were sticky with last night's juices. "Come here and fuck me," she begged him, running her pale pink tongue over her lips.

"I'm sorry honey, I've got to get ready for work." He went into the bathroom, closing and locking the door. He'd only started locking it after she had joined him in the shower one morning. He had used to leave the door open and was glad when she came to shower with him, even though then they usually didn't spend much time showering. Brigitte wept.

He had left the suit she had dirtied yesterday for her to wash. Marcus had a habit of leaving tissues, paper, and money even in his suit pockets, all of which the washing machine would turn into grey, lint-flecked confetti. It came as small surprise to Brigitte when she discovered the ripped, green square of laminated foil in the left pocket. She knew when she first felt it. Knew when her nevertheless trembling hand brought it fluttering into the light and her nerveless fingers dropped it on the floor. Knew as she knelt in front of it, tears splashing spreading dark blotches on the cream carpet, and read the legend. Durex.

It was only when she registered the lack of surprise she felt that she realised she had suspected he was having an affair for a long time. It had been obvious to her in a thousand small ways, from the way he always smelled like he had just washed when he got home, to his habit, newly acquired, of ruthlessly questioning her on what she had done during the day. In a sense she wasn't angry, having been angry now, without realising it, for some weeks.

It was now only half-past nine in the morning, but she felt no shame in sitting ever so quietly and finishing a bottle of cheap red wine. The condom packet was still in her hand, and looking further at it she saw it had been designed for anal penetration. She had always loved anal sex, and this further betrayal was like the stab of an ice dagger. She felt numb and hollow, as if simultaneously swaddled carefully in cotton wool while cancer tore at her insides. Brigitte called several of her friends' homes forgetting, in her rage-drunk calm, that they were at work. She wondered which of them Marcus was fucking. Or was it that hoary cliché, the bleached blonde teenage secretary with big tits and a shaved snatch?

Monstrous thoughts ran through her head, of Marcus and some girl lying on a sweat-mussed bed and laughing about his foreign wife.

Around noon, and her third bottle of gut-scarringly bad wine, she began to think about revenge. Her first, and most brutal, thought was of pretending nothing had happened, waiting until Marcus lay sleeping, happy in his adultery, beside her, then going into the bathroom, getting the long scissors she used occasionally to trim her hair. She pictured herself creeping back into their bed, leaning over him and slowly slipping down his boxer shorts. Him waking as the cold steel of the scissors pressed against the underside of his testicles and the top of that roll of flesh he shared now, not with his wife, but with his no-doubt vapid mistress. But too late, as she clamped her hand shut on the handles, letting his cock fall in a bloody smear on the bed.

It was too much and she knew immediately she would never do it, that no woman would. It was a revenge for B-movies and bad crime novels. She thought instead of the usual routes. Acrimonious tears, bitter court proceedings, the splitting of property and friends. At least there were no children to stay together for; one thing Brigitte knew was that she could never stay with him now.

It was around two that the thought of her young neighbour with the massive genitals began to intrude and a saying of her mother-in-law's began to play on a maddening loop in her head. What's good for the goose is good for the gander.

She started getting ready, knowing Ben got home around four. Brigitte ran a deep bath, filling it with the sensual-smelling oils and creams she used to use for special nights – and days – with Marcus. She stepped into the bath, luxuriating in the feel of the hot water against her skin, and enjoying the tingle of bubbles bursting on her body. She reached for the razor on the side of the bath and, after lathering cream against her pussy until it was obscured by a rich white froth, removed the slim band of dark hair framing it, with long, easy strokes. She ran the tap, mixing the water until it was neither too hot, nor too cold, then washed the residual foam off her cunt, gasping as the water fluted over her engorged labia and barely resisting the temptation to masturbate.

She let the water out of the bath and showered, rinsing herself completely clean of soap then washing her longish brown hair. Wet, it reached well below her shoulder blades, but she sat, luxuriantly swathed in a giant, blue towel, and slowly dried and curled it, until it bounced playfully around her shoulders. Brigitte inspected herself in the full-length mirror, twisting and turning to see what it was about her body that had driven her husband away. Her legs were long and beautifully slender, rounded calves and smooth thighs blending into a firm and perky bottom. Her pussy was small, with tight, well-crafted lips and her belly was toned and flat, a delicious belly button squiggle pocked in the middle. Her breasts were not large, but were beautifully formed, perfectly curving down in convex swells to heavy curves on her chest, capped by large pinkish nipples. She had darkly rich blue eyes, big and glossy, her nose was small and cute and she had big, pink lips that numerous guys had told her felt amazing wrapped around the shafts of their cocks. At thirty years old, Brigitte was at her most beautiful, though at the moment she didn't realise it and saw only the few flaws – the beauty spot on her backside, the scar where her appendix was removed.

She began to dress, slowly tugging a black, translucent thong up her thighs and enjoying the silky feel of the soft material against her newly bald pussy. She put on the matching bra then went looking for a suitably sexy dress. She settled on a number low cut at both the chest and the leg, a throaty whisper of material that had seemingly been priced more by the amount of flesh it showed than by the few areas it concealed. Brigitte didn't need much make-up and – a rare skill - she didn't use much either. She quickly applied some lip-gloss and a few other minor essentials.

It was now six, and by her reckoning Marcus would not be home for around an hour and a half. Plenty of time to screw Ben twice – first an artless and messy fumble against the door, her legs wrapping around his waist as he yanked her thong aside and desperately entered her, then a slower, better exploration. And hopefully she'd be home late enough for Marcus to worry.

She walked up to Ben's bungalow, the day cool and windless, and knocked on his door. He took a while to answer and Brigitte wondered if she had caught him masturbating again: if so, their first session would no doubt be even faster than she had hoped. When he did open the door, there was an unmistakable bulge at his crotch, and she made a point both of looking at it and of letting him see her looking.

"Mind if I come in?" She moved passed him and pulled him into his kitchen where she pressed against him, eyes closing as she kissed him, feeling that great length press against her thigh. Her pussy was dripping already and she opened her eyes to begin fucking him. The first thing she registered was the paleness of his face. The second was a familiar green BMW sitting on the gravel outside his kitchen window, concealed from the road and the door by which she had entered. She could read the number-plate: B4 MCS. She knew it, of course, having bought it for Marcus three years ago.

"What the fuck?" Brigitte moaned and dropped her arms from around Ben's neck. Frantic she dashed through the kitchen door further into the bungalow and began searching the rooms. Ben chased after her, but was too stunned to catch her before she stumbled across his bedroom.

Marcus lay there, handcuffed to the bed with his beautiful ass pointing up at the ceiling. It glistened in the light, and Brigitte saw a tub of lubricant sitting on the bedside table. "At least", she thought, "Ben threw on a T-shirt and jeans before coming to see the woman whose husband he was fucking in the ass". "I need you inside me," Marcus said before turning his head just enough to see that it was his wife, and not his hugely endowed lover, that was standing beside the bed.

"Oh, shit," he said.

Brigitte saw his car keys sitting on the bedside table and grabbed them before pushing past Ben and running to her husband's car. As she raced through the hall she heard Marcus asking Ben to unchain him, and as she drove down the drive she saw him standing naked at the top, his penis still redly engorged, head in his hands realising it was too late to halt her.

Never stopping, Brigitte drove through the night, alternately stars and streetlights dancing against the moisture on her face, until she stood in the prow of the ferry bearing her home, losing her tears to the sea.

Author's Note:

As usual, feedback to the link below. The title is, of course, from the Patti Smith song.