Fever Pitch

Any time he wanted to, he could just pull down his zip. He would have to ease out his cock, too stiff, too big to get out easily. He might check to make sure that she was wet enough. He might not. She was just a cunt after all. He could just put his cock head to her cunt and push it in. She was just another cunt, but fucking the wife of his English architect would still be so much better than yet another Arab girl. Or maybe it would not be her cunt. Maybe he would use her ass instead. Something we did not do. Maybe he would do both, one after the other, then both again, cunt, ass, cunt, ass. He needed to be fully satisfied.

Maybe the answer to Accident and Emergency queueing was to provide better television, to keep those who were waiting from thinking about stuff they did not want to think about. I needed to think about something else. I looked in the listing for something else to watch. Silent Witness. Murder, detection, and a female lead I would not say no to. Not in my head at any rate. That would do.

At three thirty I received a text from Laura.

"Signed and sealed. I'm going to take in a film in Leicester Sq. See you later. XXX"

I thought to phone to congratulate her, except if she could not answer because she was still with him, in his office, over his desk, or on his settee, or bed or floor, I might hear something that would tell me that he was fucking her, and while it was possible, I did not want the certainty of knowing.

"Well done. Have a good time. XXX"

Deliberately ambiguous.

At some point I must have dozed. I did not hear her come through the door. I just felt her hand resting on my shoulder.

"Hi," she said, from behind me.

"Hi," I answered, putting my hand on hers, feeling its warmth.

"How are you feeling?" she asked.

"Getting there," I said. "Not quite as good as I thought this morning. How was the film?"

"Good," she said.

I did not ask which film she had seen, let alone the details of what had happened in it, in case she could not tell me.

"I need to shower," she said. "Traveling by tube always makes me feel so grubby."

"Okay," I said.

She slid her hand from under mine and went upstairs, to shower away the sooty dust that hangs in the air in London's underground, or else to wash him from her body, or maybe both. Would she use the shower head to rinse down there? In there? To remove all traces of his semen.

Exactly how much later, I cannot remember, but she came down in just her dressing gown, the belt holding it at the waist, white satin covering her satin smooth, white flesh, and she sat beside me, leaning against me, crossing her legs, one hand resting on my leg. She was wearing red nail varnish, not just on the fingers of her hand, but on the toes of the foot that was raised just enough for me to notice.

The skin of her calves was glowing in the artificial light of our lounge. Outside, it was dark. The clock said after ten. She had been back only an hour at most. Even allowing for travelling, she had been in central London for almost five hours since her text. Two films, back to back? Two bodies, front to front, cock to cunt?

"I did something, in the shower," she said. "Something you've wanted me to do before. As a treat. Since you're not feeling good."

I could guess. Guessing was not hard. But my cock sure was, achingly hard.

"Do you want to feel?"

She uncrossed her legs. Her hand guided mine to where her pussy was now smooth, the hair that she never even trimmed before, no longer there. Her mound was smooth as a billiard ball. Right to her protruding lips. They did that. Her lips protruded. Not all the time, but when she was aroused. And after we have made love. After she has made love. After she has been fucked.

"Do you like it?" she asked.

I kissed her.

"I love it," I said, thinking that Arab guys like their women shaved, but not saying this, just making myself believe that what she had told me was the truth.

We went to bed, and we made love. I cannot pretend that my performance that night was up to much. I was too out of it to fuck her well, or to prevent myself from coming, not helped by a day of having an erection and of picturing her being fucked by my Saudi client every which way I could imagine.

Maybe the uncertainty of the previous twenty four hours had got to me as well. The not knowing.

In the bathroom, while I had cleaned my teeth, I noticed that the lady's razor that Laura kept for her underarms was in its dish on the window ledge, the razor, and the dish, both dry as a bone. My razor was by the sink, but just as dry. How quickly do these things lose the residual droplets of water that are inevitable after use, and dry so fully and completely?

So while we were making love, I was thinking he must have shaved her, before he fucked her. Not just a cursory removal of her pubic hair, but slowly, taking his time, smoothing his razor over her pubic mound repeatedly to ensure that not a fraction of a millimetre of hair remained, easing her lips to one side to remove any growth from every nook and cranny of her sexe, and then doing exactly as I would have done, had she shaved herself for me. Going down on her. Lapping at her newly shaven pussy with his tongue. Penetrating her with its tip. Teasing her clitoris. Making her come.

"The Godfather, one and two," Laura said over coffee and toast the next morning.

"What?" I asked.

"You didn't ask me what I saw last night. They had a double bill, at the Odeon."

This was her alibi for being back so late. I could always check that the double bill really had been showing, but then, if it really was an alibi, she would not have risked making something up.

The double bill had to have been showing. Laura might have genuinely seen them. Or she might have checked the listings online to get her alibi in place. She might have had it ready even before she went to get the contract signed, and to let him fuck her for the second time around. She had had time to check, while I was still putting the paperwork together at my office.

What was convenient was that the Godfather films are so well know there was no point in asking her about the plot to check if she had really been to see them. She knew the plots of both.

Ticket stub? Who keeps a ticket stub? And I did not want to ask her for it.

"Okay," was all I said.

The project took five months, from start to end. It ended with a meeting at the completed house. Laura came along, glowing with that special glow. I reckoned she deserved to, after securing the contract when I had been ill.

Since then, we had been enjoying some seriously good sex. Once I had fully recovered, I had discovered that tricks of the imagination can raise your libido. Thinking of her with someone else made me want to fuck her raw. Not that she complained. She said that I was giving her the best sex of her life. But the glow was something else again.

Our client arrived at the house twenty minutes after we had got there. Immaculately cut suit, white shirt, diagonally striped tie, black shoes.

He had left everything to me, so it was his first visit to the house. I showed him around. Laura waited downstairs, preferring not to be on her feet too long.

"I obviously made the right decision." he said, as we went upstairs. "In my choice of architect, I mean. Your wife was extremely persuasive."

I wondered just how persuasive she had been. I had been wondering about that for five months solid. All I had was my fever ridden recollection, too little and too hazy to put my suspicions directly to my wife, but enough to keep me picturing him fucking her.

"Yes," I said. "I'm glad she was. It's been one of my more satisfying projects."

"I would have thought she keeps you more than satisfied," he said. "She's a most attractive woman."

I was surprised at the direction he was taking our conversation. Was he gently boasting. Letting me know that he had fucked her? Or just making a casual comment, guy to guy?"

"Yes," I agreed. "She is."

"I'll admit that I was tempted," he said. "That was quite a dress she wore, the night you couldn't join us at the hotel for dinner. I even suggested she came up to my suite."

I bet you did, I thought. Before I could say anything he went on.

"The most she would agree to was a nightclub. I guess she told you that we danced until late. Too late for the tube. I had to arrange a cab to take her home."

"Yes," I said. "She told me."

We finished the tour of the new house.As I walked him around the bedrooms, I wondered why he was telling me about that night. He could just as easily have said nothing. Had she asked him to? Could I believe a word he said?

We went downstairs.

"Your husband has lived up to everything you told me," he said to Laura.

"And do I detect that congratulations are in order?" he added, glancing down as he was talking to her, his eyes resting momentarily on her stomach, which had begun to show several weeks before.

We had been trying for a year, and finally it had happened. Which is why I kept thinking back to that night when I had been ill, trying to remember. What time had she got back? In just what way had he been fully satisfied by her? Why had she chosen then, that day, to shave herself so perfectly smooth for me?

Laura lowered her gaze, the usual feigned embarrassment of having the physical evidence of her pregnancy explicitly referred to. But she was clearly delighted to be expecting.

"Our first," I said. "In four months time."

He seemed to take a moment thinking about the timing. Then he reached inside his jacket, taking out a leather encased cheque book and a pen. We were in the kitchen, and he used the island counter to lean on as he wrote his cheque.

Watching him write with his obviously expensive, tortoise shell fountain pen , I was thinking that in four month's time I would know for sure. That is, the complexion of the baby, when it arrived, if I was the father, would be pure white. Any hint of olive would tell me it was not mine, and that this guy had fucked my wife that night, and in the afternoon that followed.

Of course, even if our child turns out to be as white complexioned as the snow, and as the smoothly shaven mound between my wife's delicious thighs, that she still keeps free of hair, I still will not know for sure if Laura had spread her thighs for him.

Even if our child is mine, that does not mean she did not let him fuck her. It would not tell me if while I had been laid up in bed, Laura had risked Saudi sperm impregnating her in a hotel bedroom, not just once, but returning the next afternoon to take that same risk a second time.

"You said the costs over-ran a little," he said, tearing the cheque from its stub. "I have added more than enough to cover, as a thank you for services rendered, and perhaps to provide something for the new arrival."

It sounded so smooth and charming. The meaning was ambiguous.

He offered the cheque to me. I took it. I glanced at it was I put it with my papers. Three hundred thousand. Even with the overrun on costs, the extra one hundred thousand was far more than was needed to cover the ten percent which was my fee.

"Thank you," I said. Then I turned to Laura.

"We should be going," I suggested.

In the car, I told my wife about the amount that he had written on the cheque.

"It's generous," she said. "I guess he can afford it."

"I guess he can," I said. "You didn't tell me he likes to play roulette."

She gave me a look, clearly puzzled at my comment.

"He told me how much he had enjoyed your company that night," I said. "That you went on to a casino after dinner, and that you even brought him good luck at the roulette table. You did not even complain when he kept you there so late he had to get a cab to take you home."

She laughed.

"I had forgotten that," she said. "Yes. It was a fun evening. I did get back pretty late. You were so out of it."

I pictured him between her legs, bucking and thrusting, using his cock as a piston, sating his hunger for yet another woman, someone else's woman, fucking her just for his amusement, another night, another cunt, another plaything, another receptacle for his sperm.

Roulette? What roulette? He had told me they went dancing, so now I knew the only dancing they had done that night was horizontal. The only reason she had so readily confirmed that they had been to a casino was because she had been in bed with him, or on the floor, over a table, or wherever they had fucked.

The only roulette had been the russian roulette that my wife had played, letting him shoot his sperm in her while we still trying for our first child, risking not sudden death, but sudden life, growing and kicking inside her.

Of course I could have said something straight away. I could have told her that I knew. I could even have said that actually he had told me that he had fucked her, that he had noticed that she was expecting, and that the amount he would write on his cheque would be somewhat higher, to make amends. Or to pay us off.

She would have believed me if I had said that. Instead I waited. The sex with her since that night, that afternoon, had been seriously good, stimulated by my suspicions. I wanted more of that, even with the more restricted positions that her pregnancy would soon require us to use.

I could wait a while. Say, four months. Find out whose child my wife was carrying. Take it from there. Decide what to do with my fucking wife.

Suggestions welcome.